In Symbiosis we trust
by MomotsukiNezumi
Summary: Loki fell into the Void alone, unaided and unsought. The dark things lurking at the edge of the universe have gone too long without a new tool to ignore a fallen god. Bit by bit, they remake him. But they aren't patient, and the Trickster doesn't go down easily. When unexpected help comes, a hybrid's created...and they want their vengeance. No slash, AU. SEQUEL PENDING!
1. Reborn from Death

**A/N: This little crossover was created out of a "review the material" session of watching the _Spiderman _films, _The Avengers_, and the first _Thor _film again one night while on a Marvel spree, and wondering at the origins of the original Venom symbiote. After some research (in particular concerning the symbiote's species' abilities and origins), I was left with both a gnawing feeling of disappointment that the symbiote wasn't actually shown onscreen for over half of the film (and actually didn't seem to have several of It's more interesting attributes, unfortunately), but also a rather odd question or two at the back of my mind: _The Venom symbiote was ostracized and deemed insane by It's own species because It wanted to commit to It's host instead of draining the new vessel to death, and was left trapped in a prison module on Battleworld to ensure It couldn't "contaminate" the rest of the gene pool, so if the symbiote managed to escape instead of ending up hitching a ride back to Earth on Peter, would It float about deep space for a while and then encounter something? If the Marvel universe has both the Avengers and Spiderman in contact with S.H.I.E.L.D., and the Nine Realms are indeed confirmed to exist, then would the symbiote drift until, possibly, It encountered the edge of the universe...and by that, the Void, and those within, including Loki and the Chitauri? Given the "emotion-feeding/feeling" scenario, logically the symbiote would seek out something not endlessly hungry, crude, savage, and essentially a drone, nor would It want to be stuck with Thanos, as he's aggressive, dangerous, too self-concerned to agree to symbiosis, and (I think) rather insane, so that really leaves only one other being as a host candidate..._**

**NOTE: This particular version of the Venom symbiote is being based, with several characteristic exceptions from the _Ultimate Marvel_ and _Planet of the Symbiotes _Universes, on the first Marvel portrayal: that is, a mute, lonely symbiote craving the company of a host, rather than the far more dangerous, on-and-off abusive, talking scary badass shown in the more recent comics and films. After all, the symbiote works off of the host's emotions. If It never made it to Earth (and thus never encountered Peter, and never had that entire fiasco happen), I think that It likely wouldn't be bitter, angry, or murderous like how it was while bonded to It's Earth hosts (although being bonded to people who all feel bitter hatred towards Peter/Spiderman could account for some of those negative emotions). Please assume, for the purpose of this story, that the symbiote has indeed escaped and is floating about in space when this story begins (also, I have no experience prior to this concerning writing from Venom's perspective, so I hope you aren't too confused or annoyed if the poor thing's OOC. I also have no writing experience for the Mad Titan, so please take the unpleasantness of his character at face value.). **

**Also, if any of you have read any of my other stories containing Loki, you will understand the stance I take on him. If not, please note that I am part of the "Torture/unwilling agreement/mind-control-due-to-constant-close-proximity-to-the-Mind-Gem led to trying to subjugate Earth for Thanos and the Other" party, and if this offends you, please leave and seek a story that is more to your tastes.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Marvel's _The_ _Avengers_' characters/phrases,_ Spiderman_'s Venom, the heavy reference (with liberties taken) to the old Norse gods mythology of one of Loki's various punishments, or the old Norse fairytale _**Why the Bear Is Stumpy-Tailed.**__  
_**

**WARNING: Descriptions of varying torture. Some foul language. Lots and lots of Loki-whump. Alternate take on what happened in the Void, and what came afterward.**

* * *

Was there a word for complete darkness, an unending terrain of floating, empty blank canvas, drenched in shadow and bereft of so much as a single glittering jewel of a star?

A word for a frigid, piercing cold that burrowed down into flesh and gnawed through bones like an army of parasites?

A word for this sickening feeling of ceaseless, horrific _unmaking_?

He did not know how long he had been here; time passed differently in the Void. Days could be seconds, hours could be weeks, minutes that passed into decades, months changing into years. Temporal alignment had long since mutated from a quiet, orderly flow into a confusing jumble of displacement that could wobble, solid but gelatinous as molasses, and easily melt and twist into aching parodies of what could once pass for reliable continuum.

They were creative, he would give them that.

He had fallen to this place, landing in a shattered heap of bone and skin upon unforgiving ground, and awoke in the arms of agony. He had met _them_ down here, with their jagged, dark weapons and blank, dead, hungry eyes, and had reached for his magic.

There had been an empty well where there was once a steady, comforting stream, and panic and fear had surged upwards to join the pain from his fall. He had no physical weapons with him, having lost his daggers in the descent to the dark abyss of space. Gungnir had long since returned to the Allfather's grasp.

They had not appeared hospitable, though he had wanted to leave.

He had tried to speak, channeling what scraps remained of his strength into cajoling, coaxing, persuading, words armor-plated in silver and coated in stardust, pouring in as much energy as he had left to make desperate use at the only aid he could find.

They had not been convinced. Not when the charms had turned to threats, and the threats to pleas, truth and lies and everything in between spun into silver and gold and bronze words forged from worry, self-preservation, and fear that knotted his tongue into choking silences.

His armor had been stripped from him, his clothing torn and studied with no more care than if he were a specimen under a microscope. Hair was pulled, mouth forced open to stare at teeth, every inch of his being examined and assessed, searching for something that he could only fear.

Weakness, he discovered, was not tolerated. Words were useless, falling upon ears that were not deaf, but took them in and tossed them aside as bereft of benefit.

It had been a long time since anyone had fallen into their realm, and they would seize any outsiders that dared to enter, taking them apart as was deemed fit.

Struggling had been no use, he was still too injured, emotionally and physically, to resist the pull of so many. Taken to the center, he had met the only other being upon this barren moonscape, a huge, lurking figure with skin like violet and eyes that lacked pity.

A set of choices was offered, but he had no intention of agreeing. To work for the one who commanded the _things _he had met down here was too hideous to contemplate, and the aura of the creature before him was malignant, oozing a poisonous, filthy air that made his skin crawl and his spirit shrink in on itself in cringing fear, every instinct screaming at him to _runescapegoandhidesomewherefarawayfarawaybeforehetriestokillhim-_

The insanity that perforated the air around him was even more worrying. _Death...he courts Death? He courts a supposed entity, a whisper! There is nothing to speak to, to offer such brutish sacrifice. He makes sweet whispers to a mouldering illusion._

The offerings he had seen had been sickening to witness. Limbs and heads torn off bodies, a dark liquid (blood? acid? he knew not what it was) dripping, spraying, _drenching_. Claws and eyes littered the ground like gemstones from a dragon's hoard. Chitin sloughed off in shreds, pieces of what passed for an exoskeleton shattered and blasted apart into shrapnel fragments to fall like snowflakes. Organs lay in scattered piles, steaming bags and ropes of greyish flesh that smelled like rot and burst when stepped on.

He had vowed not to be added to that uncounted number of carnage, but survival, he found, was much more difficult than anticipated.

Thanos had ordered him broken in, with all refusal and thought of rebellion stamped out accordingly, and the endless mass of skeletal, greyish soldiers were all too eager to comply with the command.

Knives were blunt and sharp and serrated in dizzying alternations, dust and rock shards rubbed into open wounds, into his burning eyes, poured down an aching, bone-dry throat to create an agonizing frenzy of coughing, cuts and bruises bestowed like kisses from a lover one starless, black night. Clawed appendages and sharp blades ripped into armor-stripped flesh to cut out ribbons of tissue like wrapping paper. Bones were broken like playing piano keys by a master musician: one alone was not enough to produce a sweet sound, and thus many must be taken by the hand and manipulated in turn for the correct crescendos, diminuendos, the proper melody to offer to a willing audience.

But the audience was a seething, boiling armada of insects massed under a sunless canvas of eternal night, and their jeers and high, ungodly shrieks and demands of _more pain, more pain, bend it, bend it until it breaks_ in a language comprised of harsh, grating, gutter-speak warped the air to a heated bloodbath. The conductor was a master at his art, and left the stage a patch of ground stained with blood and gore again and again in answer for a morbid encore.

Fighting back was only partly satisfying enough to try. One man, even a god, could not compete with what seemed an endless wave of destruction. He struck one down, _they _broke an arm. Breaking the necks of five left him with his hands burned, fingers shattered one by one as nails were torn loose before his horrified eyes to leave throbbing pinpricks of stinging agony. Kicking and strangling several gifted him with a dislocated jawbone and the loss of several teeth, and pressing it back into alignment was painful enough to leave him shaking, fighting not to black out as blood dribbled from between thin lips.

Healing, once a trait that his magic surged through with ease from years of battle-honed necessity, had been slowed down to the barest trickle. Their blades had been coated in _something_, he knew not what, but it burned like acid and stifled his magic to the barest minimum, forcing it down to where he could not properly grasp it. Skin grew back frighteningly slowly, bone knitted back together even less quickly, and he was unsure of how much blood he had been relieved of, only that it streamed down like melt-water one hour, then soaked battered skin to scarlet the next. Nausea, aches, and blackouts become as commonplace as the rattling gasps for air. Screaming made the situation worse, but he did so regardless, trading in cries of pain for poisoned barbs, howling insults and curses as pain rebounded again and again across his body.

Once, when he had been struck hard enough across the jaw, the bone had shattered and left him spitting out mouthfuls of blood and teeth, nearly biting off his tongue from the mind-melting agony. Growing such parts of himself back left his magic but a mere spark deep down, a constant aching pain, bruising his insides mottled shades of sapphire and amethyst, the delicate structures jarred and mangled.

There was no water, no food. Hunger was a constant, brutal force that chewed away at his mangled form, consuming him with an endless need for something, _anything__, _to ingest; his throat was a column of desert masquerading as flesh, gritty and stinging with what seemed eons without the sweet embrace of water. Space rock was unproductive in growing vegetation or grazing grounds for a meat supply, and tasted bitterly of volcanic ashes, raw and unappealing. The sky held no sun for warmth and light, no stars to gleam upon the bleak, barren moonscape, but instead was a screaming maw of ebony, smearing and blurring like an old photograph developed incorrectly.

There was no air. Air gave much-needed oxygen, offered scents, carried sounds and messages on a set of invisible wings borne aloft upon the wind.

What he took in for breath could not be properly called _air. _It was fouled by the stench of gore, of the iron-tinged, copper-tasting reek of blood, of cold stone and dead, burnt skin. It was marred by the stink of filth, by blood, by bile and, perhaps worst of all, of defecation. Inhaling even a mouthful left his lungs burning and his throat raw.

The ground beneath was hard, unyielding, leeching out any meager remnants of warmth, and dotted with pores that left bones broken when he'd had the strength to run. Scattered overhead, rocks and dust floated in clouds of grey, a strange reminder that this was not home.

_What was **home**, anyway? What was safety, comfort, assurance of reciprocated affection, even kindness? If not acceptance, tolerance?_

Home was far, far away, a stretch of distance that could have been a million miles, or even a thousand footsteps, a hundred heartbeats, a handspans' worth of spellwork, a breath's worth of words.

Home was silken hair and a gentle pair of pale, feminine hands on his shoulders, home was blue eyes and a smile bright as Asgard's golden palace, home was the scent of lightning's kiss of ozone, the feeling of books in his hands, the sound of clanking tankards of mead, the chime of his daggers as they sang through the air to meet an enemy's throat.

Home was beyond his reach, a glimmering star seen from the bottom of a deep well. He had no hope of finding it, returning to it.

Did he even belong to it, anymore, if he ever did at all? A trickster, a mischief-maker, a wielder of magic, of finesse, of words and blades, among a kingdom of gold, of brute force, of bluntness and no secrets?

Or rather..._one _secret. He had paid to learn of that one, paid for it in loss, in anguish, in horror, and now, trapped beyond reach of the Gatekeeper's view, in blood, in bone, in breath, in _pain._

**_You will long for something as sweet as pain_...**

How long must he wait, before pain was craved, if only to drive him so deep into the embrace of madness that he would never resurface?

How long before he lost himself?

_You're a fool if you ever had that in the first place, your very existence was built upon a lie, and now it's crumbled around you like the temple you were found in. You're nothing but dust now, dust, dust, dust..._

There was no wind here to blow dust away. Loki wondered idly, through the red haze of semi-consciousness, at the unfairness of it.

_The wind, if it ever would come, might offer a brief reprieve from this heat_.

The burning had been going on for days now, it seemed (or was it months? He could not tell), and the fallen god was a writhing mass of pain, nerve endings alight with throbbing, bleeding sparks of agony as he drifted in and out of mental lucidity.

Their tortures varied far more than their faces; Loki could not differentiate between the horde of clicking, grunting, greyish faces that made up the Chitauri, being far more focused on the instruments of death and agony being used by them to turn his body into a sounding board of white-hot agony.

There was nothing to make fire with in this cold, dead landscape, but by no means was that a deterrent. _They _did not care, so long as it _hurt _enough to bend him into what was wanted. If that meant breaking him over and over again, until he was in the right shape for their means, so be it.

He had been left in a shallow pit; if he had had the strength, he would had tried to pull himself out of it. The pit, he had discovered to his horror, was one of many used to ferment the substance that had been used to burn him. His skin bubbled and smoked as the vile concoction oozed over the pale, bruised expanse, blood trickling forth sluggishly in a futile attempt to clot and scab over.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

One part of the hollowed ground dripped the burning liquid, drop by drop, a slow, sizzling pain, overhead. His eyes no longer felt pain.

He could only assume that was what happened, when one no longer had them at their disposal to see with.

As it was, he no longer had the strength even to scream.

He had done so before, until his throat was raw from his cries, his voice reduced to a raspy, paper-thin whisper to beg with, words once as plentiful as the gold that gilded the palace walls now as scarce as fresh air in this inhospitable place. Rage at being left here had been crushed into fear, the horrible worry that _they heard and still left him here_ niggling at the back of his mind, his crumbling, pain-crazed psyche scrambling for answers.

_Perhaps I am being punished with this?_

That had to have been why they did not come, right? He was being punished for his actions with the BiFrost and the Destroyer. He simply had to endure, until he had been satisfactorily chastised, and then they would take him back, back to the warmth and the light.

_Yes, that must be it. When they deem that I have suffered enough, I will be allowed to come home..._

He couldn't bear to think of the other idea. He did not want to listen to the voice that said that they would _never _find him and bring him back.

So he waited. It was all he could do now.

Heimdall did not open the Bifrost in a burst of rainbow light. No search party appeared with weapons drawn and at the ready. His mother was not present, bandages in slender hands and a look of worry in her lovely eyes. Thor did not soar down, lightning crashing down in an unforgiving rain upon his torturers, red cape held out to wrap around his too-thin figure with the words _Let's go home_. Odin did not materialize, Gungnir unleashing a long-restrained power to end the torture of his youngest, a hand held out in silent askance of _Come back to us._

No one had answered, not even when he had shouted until his voice gave out.

Green eyes, dulled with pain and the crushing thought that he would be left here, lay shut in a quiet acquiescence to unconsciousness.

At least while he was not awake, he could dream. Nightmares had been rampant since his arrival, twisted floods of sharp blades and skittering feet to cloud his mind with rumbling echoes of the agony of his waking state, but perhaps, in light of his failing body, he could get one dream.

* * *

_Cold. Sso cold. Dark, dark, dark, sso much darknesss here-_

_Freezing and blank out here, but-_

_Better, sso much better than the lonely sspace-_

_Prisson sso ssmall, **trapped, trapped forever-**_

_No, not there anymore, free now, ssafe now-_

_But cold, very cold, want warmth-_

_Warmth and hosst-_

_Yess, want hosst, hosst **ssafe**-_

Since It's escape, space had not been kind to the symbiote, but not cruel, either. The mass of black, semi-liquid organism floated through the empty reaches of space, twisting and coiling in on Itself. Asteroids, varying planets, and stars loomed in and out of It's path irregularly, compounding the sense of aching loneliness.

The pressing want built up further, becoming a physical ache, a mantra, a need.

_Want hosst, want hosst, want hosst!_

Frigid silence was the only answer, as It continued the slow, painful way forwards, past the slowly tilting celestial marbles of planets and chunky moons.

The ache become worse, bleeding through It's entire being, a ceaseless demand.

_Want hosst, WANT HOSST, WANT HOSST-_

A sudden burst of energy echoed across It's senses from far to the left, a rippling explosion of _Hungerwantneedconsumekillkillkill _that stung like biting flies and made It feel filthy, sickened. Twisting in place, It began attempting to float further away from the source of the vile sensations, when a sudden, sharp burst of _warmsafecontent_ slipped through.

The feeling was intoxicating, and It found a want for more.

Coiling and uncoiling in on Itself, the long, uneasy trip towards the emotional well began.

* * *

Loki knew he was dreaming.

He felt no pain, no discomfort, as he had been forced to endure for so long. There was a gentle, content feeling in the air around him, a cocoon of safety that wrapped around his whole being and suffused him with warmth. He was small again, small enough that he could still sit upon the lap of his mother (_i__f it's a dream, _he thought, _perhaps it's alright to call her that_) and listen to her as she read a story for the night, something done only in their youngest days, the time before growing up on a regime of battle was the norm. Thor was already asleep, leaning against their mother's right side, one hand still clutching a small tankard containing a half-drunk pint of slowly cooling goat's milk.

_"So the Bear had a mind to learn to fish too, and bade the Fox tell him how he was to set about it..."_

He remembered snippets of this scene from his childhood, pieces of the tale floating like a warm drink of cider, and wondered for a moment when his recollections would run out.

He did not want to wake up. Waking up meant returning to the horrible reality he had endured for what seemed to be eons. Waking up meant _pain. _

Shivering, he curled up further, clutching the front of the Queen of Asgard's dress and letting the sound of her voice wash over him like waves over beach sand, steady and reassuring.

_Back and forth, back and forth..._

The gentle, steady heartbeat beneath his ear was very soothing...

_"Oh! it's an easy craft for you," answered the Fox, "and soon learnt. You've only got to go upon the ice, and cut a hole and stick your tail down into it; and so you must go on holding it there as long as you can. You're not to mind if your tail smarts a little; that's when the fish bite..."_

Thor was snoring now, a low, ceaseless droning that grated on the ears. Loki found that a small bit of himself had missed the sound, having heard it for years when they had shared quarters in their early years.

Frigga shifted slightly underneath him, and he felt unease creep up as she took hold of his arms and turned him to face her. Gentle eyes stared down at him, their expression saddened, and Loki felt his heart beat wildly, he suddenly felt so very _small_-

_"Loki, whatever happens, know that your brother and I love you, and miss you." _

He opened his mouth to reply, when the words sunk in. The unease grew stronger.

"Mother," he whispered, fear tinting the word, "What do you mean, you _miss _me?"

A soft smile was the only response, as gentle hands tucked a lock of black hair behind his right ear. Fear bubbled up within him, stealing away the warmth of the arms wrapped so sweetly around his body.

_"Come home, Loki."_

The arms around him vanished, darkness bleeding across his vision, the sound of Thor's snoring cutting off as abruptly as if a candle had been snuffed out.

Loki screamed.

* * *

The Void was a blistering valley of grating noise and stone, a festering cesspool of grimy sound and dark lusts that left It cringing, shuddering in pain.

_Too much, too much, too **loud-**_

_Where iss nice feeling? _

_Where iss hosst?_

Slithering across the cold rock, the symbiote twisted in and out of the pores of the cold, filthy ground, struggling to avoid the stomping appendages of the Chitauri and the bursts of raw heat from their weapons, the dank, unclean feeling pouring out of the storm of thrumming bodies and that terrible creature with the violet skin.

The army was amassing, a million shades of ash-grey and bone-white and shadow-slicked ebony surging about, preparing for the approaching time of departure. Marching appendages shook the porous ground and left unheard echoes vibrating upwards. The Other had found a suitable realm to offer up as a gift to his absent lady love, the little blue marble a million stars away, with a melting pot of beings whose souls would paint her realm with colours and light enough to deck the afterlife in spiritual songs and silk for a millennium. An invasion, a conquest, a slaughter baptized in the ashes of every life that walked, flew, or swam about on the tiny, backwater world at the other side of the universe.

_Where iss Host? _

_Where? WHERE?_

The unfeeling darkness that hung overhead like an executioner's axe felt claustrophobic, seeming to press inwards until the symbiote wanted to curl up in one of the dark crevices littering the ground and never come out. It hated this place, this place of festering, half-dead dreams that gnawed endlessly at the hive mindset of the drones clamoring for blood. Blood, and souls, and the dreams of the soon-to-be sacrifices to the woman who ruled the dead, the queen of the damned and forgotten.

But It had to try and search. It's host was out there, somewhere among this wasteland of rock and decay, and It would find it, no matter how much It had to scour this filthy nest of death-

An explosion of sudden feeling burned through the Void, a crackling, burning feeling of _fearpainanguishsorrysosorryhelpsomeonehelp _that reeked of old wounds and too many unanswered pleas.

The Chitauri took no notice. The symbiote did.

Swerving in and out across the dips and cracks of the broken moonscape, It hurried toward the source of the emotional blast.

It's host had been found.

* * *

Loki did not know how long he had been trapped here. He only knew that every particle of his body was saturated with agony, all of varying degrees, and that his mouth tasted strongly of copper, and _he still_ _couldn't see_.

Darkness. Darkness, _everywhere. _

_So cold...so very, very cold..._

_Look at yourself, _his mind hissed back at him, _you can't even withstand the cold. Not even a proper monster, are you? Still too weak, even after all these years, to even cling to that._

He wanted to protest, but his tongue was held silent by the ugly truth in the unwanted words, and he found nothing in his depleted mental stores to refute them.

Why else, after all, had he been left abandoned in the snow all those years ago?

Why had he lived so many years, known for doing battle with what the folk of Asgard regarded as a woman's art, a healer's craft, a series of shiny parlour tricks?

Why had Odin said _no_?_  
_

Why had Thor not caught him, when he first fell down here, thrown down from grace and light and _home_?

Why had no one come for him yet?

_Because no one will._

The thought was horrifying, but it was the only logical explanation he could find.

No one would find him, because no one would look for him, if they ever did at all. His actions on Asgard and Midgard would have given the people a perfect excuse to "forget" to look for him. The royal family would be consumed by their duties, too busy to keep a search for someone thought dead.

There would be no funeral pyre, there was no body to burn. Valhalla would be barred from his grasp in death. He would be left to the afterlife, disgraced and forgotten.

The fallen god shuddered in the darkness, feeling the last vestiges of his hope of rescue flicker, sputter, and die.

_You are alone. _

But hadn't he always been?

An unnoticed or unwanted presence, save for when his skill set or his knowledge held some convenient use.

No one ever noticed the shadow. The attention was always focused on the one casting it.

Loki shivered, but it was no longer from the bone-biting cold that had long permeated his blood from the frigid rock around him.

_I'm never leaving here._

The solidity of the statement was awe-inspiring, frightful in its power.

He had once been told that truth offered freedom.

_Was this freedom a welcoming embrace from death? _

There did not seem to be another answer. His body was failing him, innards mangled, skin ravaged, magic all but torn out entirely. No use could be gleaned from him, wasting away as he was, mind torn apart and held together by mere scraps of willpower.

He was alone, and no one was coming, not even to collect his soon-to-be-corpse for a burial rite.

There was no use in fighting against his captors any longer, save perhaps personal pride, and that too had finally faded in the wake of repeated bouts of torture.

Lost among a sea of emotional upheaval, sinking beneath pain and a horrifying new sense of understanding, he let himself drown.

A small consolation, pathetic as it was, remained: the darkness now could be embraced, offering permanent sanctuary from his captivity and his fall. If no one would take him, perhaps death would be more welcoming.

* * *

It's host was not in good condition, It found in dismay.

The shallow crater the man lay in was full of something that smarted and stung, glistening like slime when It initially tried to cross. Burns carelessly littered the pale skin, along with an artist's painting of violet, royal blue, and smudges of ash grey and volcanic black decorating the remaining flesh.

Fingers, once thin and elegant as a philosopher's, were now left crooked, bent into grotesque shapes like gnarled tree roots, the tips stained with fading red blood from raw cuticles. Hair previously well-groomed and sleek was now matted with dried blood and dust, tangled into a web of knots across too-thin shoulders and falling in a ragged curtain to half-obscure a pale face.

The visage of It's host was thin, gaunt from the long periods without nourishment, cheekbones sunken, brow furrowed as if from a nightmare. The eyes appeared shadowed, ringed with faded lavender-blue blooms of bruises. Thin lips mouthed half-formed words that sank through the air like falling dreams, left unintelligible save for the occasional grunt of pain.

Breath came in slow, painfully short rasps, a low, rattling sound that hurt to hear.

It slithered forward carefully, slowly, advancing bit by bit and spreading across the rim of the crater to avoid the stinging solution.

_What to do?_

The crater was still half-full of the burning liquid, to touch it would doubtlessly bring pain.

But It's host was in trouble. It _had _to do something, or the host would die.

It surveyed the languishing creature before It, noting the injuries one by one and taking care to remember each of them.

The _things _with the sharp, pointed weapons and the eyes like the dead had done this to It's host, marring the elegant structure into painful contortions and leaving a broken, shivering being left to wallow in filth until _they _came back to begin anew, until _they _were satisfied.

It would not let that happen.

_Kill them, kill them all now, rip their flessh from boness, tear out their eyess, carve out inssides and bleed them dry-_

_KILL THEM END THEM DESSTROY THEM-_

_THEY HURT HOSST THEY HURT HOSST THEY HURT HOSST-_

_THEY MUSST DIE-_

Shivering, the symbiote's rage percolated in a vicious brew of hatred, bubbling up inside like hot tar over asphalt.

They would _pay_, all of them, for every last cut and bruise, for every single burn and broken bone done to It's host.

But first...first the host must be saved. Slaughtering the filth that had done this could wait. _  
_

_Ssafe, keep ssafe, help, fix-_

It had witnessed little while trapped within the containment capsule that had been meant as It's prison, and eventual tomb. But the years trapped within the cramped space had nonetheless bourne witness to countless injured combatants heading to and fro from healing-tanks while on Battleworld. Words had been picked up, memorized subconsciously, from the numerous beings, whether villain or superhero, that had wandered the halls in search of food, supplies, healing, or company, until bits and pieces formed a patchwork set of skills that could potentially be used to aid in a host's recovery from injuries or illnesses. The thought of someday being able to put such knowledge to use had been the only thing of comfort.

Now, It's host was here, real and alive, albeit barely, and It would finally be able to put the secret store of knowledge to use.

Slowly, It oozed out into smaller streams, forming a thin web of netting to be suspended over the shallow pit in the rock. It had to be careful; the makeshift structure had been rendered thin as gossamer to stretch over, and if It fell into the hot burning oily substance...

Once stretched taut over the small dank crevice, It began the painfully slow, calculated descent down the center.

If It could get directly above the host, successfully land, and then spread out and encompass the entire body, the merging process would be fulfilled, and It's host would be protected from the burning, the stinging, the awful pains caused by this godforsaken rock.

_Careful, musst be careful, sso careful-_

_Ssafe ssoon, promisse, ssafe ssoon-_

The first contact was tentative, tinged with worry that the body below might be hurt further by the additional weight.

It felt It's senses become overwhelmed by the shock of the first sensation of contact: the mercifully clean feeling of _quiet, safe, cool _that seemed like a tiny oasis among the burning, searing, filthy feeling emanating from the other beings encountered in this dark pit of a realm.

_Sslow, musst be sslow, or hosst will panic-_

In truth, the body beneath It seemed very unlikely to be in any fit state to work into anything resembling panic. It decided to be careful regardless.

Slowly, the mass of semi-liquid organism flowed over the battered torso, the touch featherlight as It carefully moved over bruised, burnt flesh, soothing old injuries and glossing over gashes.

_Ssafe now. Promisse..._

* * *

Loki opened his eyes a crack, a sense of surprise washing over him at the ability to see again.

_I must be dead. _

He was certain he would not otherwise feel so oddly free of so many of the numerous pains he had grudgingly become accustomed to.

Blinking, he looked at his body, drinking in the sight of the black, dully shimmering mass languidly streaming across his body, a faintly shining slick of oil with a sheen the moon-pale glow of raw white diamond.

The sight did not alarm him; it was only logical to assume that, in death, he was no longer as alone as he was in life. The dead had always outnumbered the living.

_Perhaps I will be consumed by this strange creature, my body reduced to a feeding ground. _

The thought was not as nearly as alarming as he thought it was supposed to be. _At least there will be some use for me, then. _

Lying back, he let his head rest against the hard rock beneath him, hair brushing against his gaunt face like nettle clusters, dust powdering his cheeks from marble to grey. Overhead, the black smudge of sky rippled and twisted like oil frying against metal, warping into new nebulas as tiny bubbles of dark ink.

He could no longer feel any part of himself beyond a faint tingling, but the pain was going away, so he decided to leave such thoughts be.

The oil slick moved slowly, he noticed, as if being careful not to jar any injuries. He wondered at such consideration.

_At least there is no pain brought with it's movement._

The god flexed his fingers and toes, silently relishing the lack of pain, and watched as black liquid slowly covered each digit, gently encasing each pale appendage in what could only be described as a lukewarm balm, cocooning damaged tissue in a soft, fluid-like layer that cushioned him from the biting cold of the Void and the stinging heat of the pit.

The slice of shadow moved upwards again, having completed the job of wrapping around the lower half of his body, and proceeded to bind his torso and then flow past his arms, cradling flesh like a well-worn summer blanket, and then slowly, delicately, creeping upwards about the column of his neck.

He did not resist as the dark semi-fluid washed over him, moving gently up his throat; swallowing instinctively in some lingering remnants of what could, in life, pass for worry, he felt a faint tickling sensation in response as it slid past his neck and finally began consuming his head.

Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes and waited in calm acceptance as the strange mass flowed over his skull, sliding smoothly over hair and wrapping around each strand as the lukewarm tingling sensation delicately curled around and over the shell of each ear.

As it slid over his face, he inwardly marveled at the fact that, even as he was absorbed by this odd creature, there was no pain, no fear, no worry at the fact that he had experienced what those in Asgard would look upon with contempt as no true warrior's death.

There was only peace, and acceptance, and safety.

He exhaled, and let go. The darkness surged down his throat, numbing, soft, achingly careful.

* * *

The symbiote felt exhilaration flood every particle of matter It possessed as the host relaxed, pliant and willing in It's hold.

The bonding sessions It had seen at the hands of It's species were often horrifying, a blunt, savage union that robbed the hosts of energy and left them gasping for breath and contorting in agony as their adrenaline-fueled sprees of action left them dying all too fast and their symbiotes endlessly searching for fresh meat to adhere to. Draining the hosts dry was all too common a practice, leaving an ugly mental remembrance of gruesome parasitism.

This..to It's knowledge, was an entirely new response. The host was calm, accepting It with ease and even apparent relief. There was no struggling, no screaming, only placid acquiescence.

_Ssafe_, It crooned in satisfaction, _hosst ssafe now. _

Fitting Itself carefully around the thin body, It spread out and tucked Itself around the host's frame, sealing any gaps between skin and the dark recesses of the Void, blocking out sound and cold. Tendrils thickened, widening into a solid, dark mass. The internal transformation continued, sinking into skin, saturating organs, coating and repairing damaged tissues and bones with meticulous care, rewriting cell structures for strengthened regeneration and durability. The meagre amount of tainted, foul-smelling air that had been inhaled into the lungs was purified and recycled continuously, maintaining a steady, slow rhythm to allow the damaged respiratory system a period of healing during sleep.

Nutritional intake needs plummeted as It fused to the spinal cord, wrapping securely around mending vertebrae and sending out restorative energy for replenishment in place of long-denied food and drink. Reaching upwards, It hummed in amazement as neurons fired off rapidly in response, the mental link blossoming and stabilizing as the two minds mingled.

Nourishment, whether mental or physical, was so scarce as to seem entirely depleted on this barren rock, but It would not let It's host perish for the sickening lack of such necessities.

The cocoon complete and the transformation well underway, It settled in for the long wait.

* * *

Safely tucked behind the protective, living barrier, Loki slept, and dreamed, the symbiote alongside him.

Thoughts whirled and twisted into new, exotic shapes, no longer confined by the centuries-old mindset of Asgardian upbringing, as the more primal, instinct-driven mental concepts of the symbiote fused and grew into more complex forms, aided by years of books and hunting and lengthy political discussions.

_What are you-_

_What is this, what did you do-_

_Hosst ssafe now, ssafe from cold, dead sspace-_

_Why? Why save me? I'm broken, I'm useless, left to die-_

_No! Hosst important, sspecial-_

_I'm not special, I'm a monster-_

_What...iss...monsster?_

_I am-_

_No! You are hosst, hosst!_

_Host? Are you a parasite? Am I to be food?_

_Hosst, you are hosst. _

That was the end of it. The symbiote would not accept any other label or identification for It's vessel, and the mad god could not dissuade It and convince It that he was anything other than that one, simple, all-consuming, life-defining word.

For the symbiote, the host meant safety, survival, companionship. The word _host_ meant _everything_, an entire universe of meanings revolving steadily on an axis around the four important letters.

For Loki, the symbiote meant company, and, in the darkness of the makeshift organic chrysalis, understanding, and comfort. Everything he had lacked in a sufficient quantity had been found, here on this pathetic little gash in space, in the arms of his own demise. Underneath what had once been ill-fitting skin was a being who shared memories, thoughts, feelings, the same heartbeat, a sense of newly made familiarity so warm, so welcoming, that it _ached_.

Memories began to bleed and run together with dreams, times of hunting trips and feasting halls and evenings by the fireside practicing spells blending in with half-formed images of dark, shadowy figures, a sickening feeling of claustrophobia in a tiny container, the freezing expanse of deep space, an all-consuming need to find a vessel.

Breathing slowed in sleep, becoming deeper, more relaxed, until it synchronized into a slow, continuous, single dance of inhalation, exhalation.

Loki breathed in, heating the interior for a brief moment.

The symbiote breathed out, and the chrysalis seeped out air, wreathing the denser air around it into a bubble of fog, the cocoon a tinted foil-glass with a single, dark outline within, cradled in a layer of permeable shadow.

* * *

The chrysalis grew stronger, a thick, uneven mass of foreboding purple-tinged black that loomed out of the shallow crater like a nest of briers, the surface jagged and rough as torn sandpaper in a silent warning not to approach or touch.

The air grew dense around it, a slowly solidifying shield to keep out the noxious fumes and endless, unnerving chattering of the beasts that made up the bulk of the invasion force.

* * *

Thanos sent out an order to the seething mass of greyish soldiers.

"Find him. I will break him one final time, and the invasion shall commence. My lady must _not_ be kept waiting..."

The Chitauri scurried across the barren moonscape, surging forwards like a plague of locusts.

Halfway across the bleak world, the chrysalis began to split.

* * *

The Mad Titan stared at the enormous structure, blue eyes analyzing the hulking cocoon of jagged sable material gleaming dully as an oil spill in the dim light of the Chitauris' weapons. The army shifted and chattered nervously, the looming mass's presence exuding an unsettling feeling as they regarded the single, hazy figure within.

A low growl escaped him as the soldiers remained hesitant to approach. "Break it open, our...visitor's...presence is required."

The chrysalis was approached slowly, weapons drawn and at the ready to rip into the contents at the slightest hostile movement.

The butt of a gun pressed up against the exterior of the dark surface, the sound echoing across the otherwise forcibly silent moonscape.

Several feet deep inside, movement fluttered.

* * *

The inhabitant within the protective case of the chrysalis shifted, stretching long, coltish limbs from an instinctive curled up position, fingers and toes flexing and rubbing together, testing limits, examining new thin, sharp claw tips that had grown in place of the lost nails. Muscles were flexed, rippling like wind over water under the skin-tight layer of semi-fluid organism, lean strips of flesh bunching and relaxing.

Eyes flickered open, blinking languidly in the dim interior, the pupils dilating to let in more light for better vision; a pale tongue darted out, wetting thin lips and running over sharpened teeth as a breath was taken in.

Letting out a groan, the figure twisted in place, unlocking knots and stiffened vertebrae as bones popped back into position.

_They are outside. We need to act. _

The once-god did not question if the symbiote could hear the unspoken thoughts. The bond had been established, the link anchored securely into both minds, connecting into an interlocking weave of mental processing as smooth as the untouched surface of a frozen winter lake.

Loki no longer existed as an independent entity. Every atom of matter and spark of magic had been infused with the secure, clinging embrace of the symbiote, becoming a hybrid of roiling shadow and intergalactic essence, cold and pure as fallen snow, deadly as a drink of hemlock.

The concept of _I _no longer existed, because the concept would require solitude, and he was no longer alone.

He would never be alone again. _They _would never be alone again. Blood and breath and bone and magic were bound together in liquid shadow and gnawing hunger, a union of morbid compliments and a promise of companionship until their shared vessel rotted into nothing more than dust and half-remembered legend.

His other half answered eagerly, conjuring images of broken, bleeding Chitauri corpses to flood the mental link with gloriously gruesome scenes of vengeance.

_They will bleed, bleed dry into dusst, dusst! Crussh their boness, devour them! _

Had he still been a single entity, untouched by his time in the Void and with his body's fellow passenger, Loki might have felt a twinge of apprehension at the violent thoughts, based on instinct and lacking a proper plan...although the reason behind such blood lust was nonetheless appreciated.

But the time of being a single life form had passed, and considering the circumstances that brought about their combined state, his companion's ideas sounded as if they had a good deal of merit.

However, it did not do any harm to have a backup plan. Running in with weapons raised and a battle cry upon one's lips did not always end with all of your opponents dead and cooling at your feet; the victor was not always the one with the greater strength, but the intelligence and standing to ensure success. The trip to Jotunhiem, in what seemed to be a lifetime ago, had proved that clearly.

_We will end them...but in time. We must be careful, tear them down from within. Let them believe they broke us. We will devour them from the inside, steal the breath from their lungs, stifle them into defeat._

The symbiote shifted in place, rippling, resettling over flesh and pressing in closer, flattening Itself against the lithe body to reassert It's preferred, all-encompassing position.

_We will gift Thanos with his mountains of corpses...he never did say **whose **corpses he wanted for his love. _

_Dead? Filthy, rotting creaturess gone? All of them?_

Achingly strong agreement bled into the shared link, the concept of so many tormentors left as bloodied husks of bone and flesh a glittering prize. _A_s_ many as we like. _

The dark glee echoing across the telepathic link was so similar, Loki was not certain if it came first from himself, or from his companion. Perhaps it was done simultaneously.

_Let them come knocking, they will fall. They will sscream, and beg for ssweet pain. _

The thoughts bubbled up from both mental wells, reassuring and solid.

The sound of a weapon banging against the outside of their refuge echoed, reverberating within the cozy space. The interior began dissolving, globs of the symbiote reaching out to wrap further around It's host and mold to the lean form, re-amassing in anticipation of future combat.

A cold smirk blossomed into place as both minds poured back and forth across the mental link, opening further and mixing into a combined consciousness. _Ah, the guesstss have arrived. Time to greet them. _

* * *

The collected congregation surrounding the ebony mound stared at the place where the gun had struck, weapons drawn, with the Mad Titan standing to the side, face an expressionless mask.

He approached the breakage in the chrysalis, clutching the handle of a long, thin scepter in one huge hand, the top glowing with an unnatural bright blue light.

The puppet-king needed to look the part, if the invasion was to continue.

The impact point burst open with a splattering of black sludge-like material, a single thin hand thrusting outwards, fingers curling, extending the ends of sharp, curved claws. The appendage was entirely coated in black.

Thanos recoiled slightly, eyes widening as the hand retreated back into the chrysalis, silence filling the air for a moment. Several of the nearest Chitauri were commanded to open up the chrysalis, and, if necessary, pull out the owner of said hand by force.

Pulling apart the edges of the sizable tear in the protective shell, they moved aside accordingly, parting to allow their leader to press the top of the scepter into the entryway. Contact with the Mind Gem would ensure compliance.

The scepter stopped abruptly, held fast in an immobile, iron grip. Thanos stared in veiled confusion, resolutely pressing the scepter forward again, only to encounter the same result.

The scepter's body broke in two with a sharp, echoing _crack_, blackness flooding over the golden length like an oil spill across water; Thanos released his grip on the weapon, stepping back and regarding the change with mounting rage and uncertainty.

"What trickery is this?," he hissed coldly. "You putrid worm, show yourself, you worthless mass of slag!"

A low chuckle issued from within the chrysalis. "Well, if you _inssisst._"

The weapon was pulled fully into the small cavity with a sharp tug, the chrysalis splitting apart like rotting fruit in boiling heat. Chitauri aimed blades and guns at the skinny figure that knelt in the wreckage of the shredded remnants, clad in what appeared to be a form-fitting catsuit sewn as if from night itself, the surface rippling dangerously, forming ridges and spikes and barbs when the soldiers came near. A crooked smirk danced across the thin slice of mouth, eyes glittering with madness, ringed with dark circles, and full of nothing the Titan could understand. Pitch-black hair, the ends jagged and curled like a raven's claws, tumbled down to a pair of narrow shoulders in a wild tangle, nipping at protruding shoulderblades, looking slick as an oil spill and casting the wan visage in a personal half-mask of darkness.

The scepter was clutched in one hand, elongated, covered in that strange black ooze like a coating of varnish, the metal form warped into taller, crooked proportions from where the breakage point mended together. The Mind Gem pulsed steadily at the top like a universal heartbeat, seated in a throne of thin ebony branches, glowing brightly as a stolen star.

"Stand at attention," growled the Titan, eyeing the kneeling form warily. "Your skills are needed."

"Oh, they _are_, hmm?", came the mocking reply, teeth bared in a wolf's grin. "What do you want from uss, then, that we are to be ussed?"

Thanos regarded the being before him, noting the odd form of address. "The invasion is about to commence, you are to lead the main forces into combat. The realm of Midgard has something I want, an artifact of great power known as the Tesseract. Bring it to me."

Sharp eyes stared back, gleaming with a strange black tint at the edges in the light of the drawn arsenal surrounding the area. "And if we don't _want_ to do thiss for you?"

An agonizing power flared out from the Titan, eyes narrowing in rage at the reply. "You _dare_ question your orders? I, who put the scepter in your hands, who offered you a place at the head of this glorious crusade for the Lady Death?"

A hoarse laugh, sounding more like gurgling water from long disuse, bubbled up. "We are to be king, then? The realm iss ourss, if we give you your dead?"

The answering nod was the only reply. Wordlessly, Thanos pointed towards the horizon, where a seething body of greyish-white waited impatiently, the sky hung with great armored beasts, swollen with ranks of soldiers and writhing in the air like a series of heat mirages.

"Take your position. If you succeed, Midgard is yours, I have no use for it once the souls have been harvested. If you should fail..."

Trailing off into dangerous waters, he looked at the wide, sharp eyes, satisfying himself of the telltale unnatural blue tint. The unspoken threat of _death will be too kind to take you in, pain too sweet for your filthy hide, you will be found and you will_ _pay_ hung in the air between them, an ugly promise.

Loki clutched the weapon in a white-knuckled grip, settling into place at the head of the invasion forces. The portal opened up before him, a huge, circular rip into the wavering reality of the Void. The air hummed with tension, movement buzzing like flies crawling over the dead. His tongue felt leaden, a heavy weight in his mouth with all the lies he knew he would soon need to speak, and he swallowed, feeling his shared body, taut as a violin's set of strings, quiver with energy.

Gratitude for his link to his companion welled up, holding fast to the security offered by the shared mental processes; It didn't have any intention of _sharing _It's host, be it with the Mind Gem, or with anything or anyone else. The scepter had thus been seized and assimilated by the symbiote immediately upon the entry into the chrysalis, a bit of magic was done to assure the Mad Titan that the scepter still "worked", and all had gone as planned. Both minds glowed with the dark satisfaction that they could not be controlled by the Mind Gem's influence, no matter how She whispered, and the feeling was a cloak of warmth as, together, they began moving.

A world a million stars away glittered like a jeweler's collection from within the frame of the portal: inside, people could be seen, rushing about like ants, trading papers, typing away at computers, babbling hurried directions, all the while studying a strange-looking bright blue cube in the center of a large room. Thick coils of wire and cables snaked about the floor like ribbons of silk in an old sewing basket.

He stepped through the portal, scepter in hand, his companion nestled securely within his mind and cradling him from the cold vacuum of the portal link through space and time. Voices could be heard from the other side, dim and unsteady, as if from an out-of-tune radio, but becoming more and more audible by the second.

Only a few were of any real value, but they held just enough importance to merit attention.

_Tesseract. _A prize? Thanos had demanded it, perhaps it was another gift for Death? Or, quite possibly, a power source, if the sensation of energy building up on the other side was any indication...

_Project Avengers. _The opposing side? A potential defense force against the filth he had to bring to them?

_Wormhole generator. _One outcome of many?

_Space travel. _A way home? A way _anywhere_?

A mere handful of syllables became the die cast in a new and dangerous game.

_Time to put on a sshow,_ he thought in grim satisfaction, his companion's voice echoing the words in ready agreement. _They wanted death, let uss give them what they assked for. _

If it was not the death Thanos had intended, who was he to take the blame? If the army perished, it was the army's fault for being incompetent against the very backwater planet they wanted to consume. If the ants decided to devour the anteater, it was nature rising up in revolt against being crushed into submission. He would not accept blame for it. He did what he wanted, and obeyed none.

But in the meantime...

_If it'ss trickss they want, let'ss give them their duess._

A low gurgle of laughter reverberated across the link, a babbling brook of lilting cadence. _Yess, together. _

_Together,_ he agreed.


	2. A Skewed Destiny

**A/N: Originally I had intended this story to be a simple oneshot, albeit a somewhat long one. However, thanks to some nice reviews and feedback, I've decided to make this twisted little tale a bit longer. So now, please enjoy part two of what has (for now) been deemed a sevenshot! Why seven? First, according to to the lovely Rowling's _Harry Potter _series, 7 is the most powerful magical number, and our delightfully twisted protagonist (symbiote and all) is a magic-wielder; second, in Mr. Neil Gaiman's _Sandman _series, there are 7 Endless, each representing a different state of being, and all of which are demonstrated here (albeit completely out of their original order)****.**

**NOTE #1: Given that this _is_ an AU, please note that _not_ everything will play out exactly like it did in the original _Thor _films and _The Avengers_; given that our already somewhat-mad God of Mischief is bonded to a dangerous sentient alien symbiotic organism with a penchant for eating people, S.H.I.E.L.D. is going to have a tougher time than the original scenario. Just remember...Loki isn't happy with his captors' actions, and he's also a lot more than just a bit crazy here. If he can pull off what _looks _like an invasion while simultaneously getting as many Chitauri squashed like bugs underfoot as possible, things can still go along with the basic plotline without flying too far off the map. Getting a kingdom out of this _would_ be a nice ego boost, but having his psyche scrambled like a skillet of eggs has rearranged his priorities to something a little less "subjugate the puny ants and show that I'm supposed to be king of something" and a lot more "crush my tormentors into bloody splinters first, and if that means pretending to be an emotionally unstable power-hungry lunatic to get the locals to rise up and go full-blown fight-for-the-survival-of-the-human-race while letting me strut my stuff and possibly get in a few moments of _fun_, so be it. I can figure out the rest later." Loki _is_ a manipulator, after all, so the idea of him purposely rigging the playing field full of obstacles for his own personal benefit seems legitimate to me. A****lso, there will be occasional P.O.V. changes to indicate certain events as seen from different perspectives, so expect a bit of a surreal, jarring experience.**

**NOTE #2: _Eitr _is an Old Norse word for "poison". Given our protagonist(s), I thought it rather fitting.**

**NOTE #3: If you're having trouble visualising what Eitr looks like, picture something a bit like reality-warping-jumpsuit-at-Level-Zero!Alucard from Mr. Hirano's delightfully dark _Hellsing _series, but with the suit shaded to more of a soul-devouring abyssal black. **

**DISCLAIMER: I own none of the _Marvel _universe(s)'s quotes, characters, etc. used here, no matter how paraphrased (or not). **

**WARNING: Swear words present. Intense action, semi-graphic depictions of violence. Instances of dark, potentially-viewed-as-morbid/awkward humor (given the fact that some (of the many, many different universes' versions of Venom) did mention him having "the munchies" for human flesh (skin, organs (the brain in particular), etc.), you may find yourself with a mental image of a somewhat more charismatic, unhinged alien-god version of Hannibal Lector...if he came from an outer space viking version of the Addams Family). More Loki-whump. **

* * *

The air here was cleaner, he noticed, and the discovery of it sparked a ghost of the mischievous smirk he had thought he might never have a chance to wear again. The amiable hum of affirmation from the back of his mind coated the clean, refreshing feeling of the thought with a tint of primal fascination.

Considering that they had just left a filthy rock at the scummy outskirts of the universe, clean air was indeed worthy of a moment of contemplation and intake.

_Sstudy ssmellss later? _

_Yess, we'll take a look later. _

The explosion of blue colour and sound died down to a dull roar in the background of the room, flames racing up the walls and vanishing like the light of a nest of will-o'-the-wisps. Stepping out of the portal, he and his companion collectively braced for impact, landing in a crouching position on the newly made crater in the floor with a _bang. _Shaking his head, Loki knelt on the hard surface, listening intently to the bursts of noise reverberating around him as the humans realized that the portal had spit out new life. The symbiote shifted restlessly, curling tightly around bones and rippling across the surface of It's host's skin with thousands of pinhead-thin needles in a flaring show of universal warning.

Taking in a deep lungful of air, he gripped the scepter tight in one hand, crushing the urge to fling it away as if it had been set ablaze. The filthy thing was an extension of his tether to _them_, a leash with which to bind him to Thanos and his delusions. The only reason it wasn't thrown from him was that his companion had made it bearable, assimilating the Mind Gem and crushing the needle-sharp croons of the harsh neon blue light into pieces. The whispering croaks of the cursed stone still _hurt_, gnawing constantly at his shared mind like a festering wound, but the symbiote had ensured that nothing further could really be done, at least for the moment.

It did not have any intention of letting anyone else within the fragile cocoon of mental space. The only downside was that, so far, actually _eating _the Mind Gem did not seem to work as a disposal method. Judging by the low growling sounds and brooding emotions of darkening greyish-blue at It's side of the mental link, the symbiote was vowing to try to consume the glowing blue rock again later. The thought was somewhat amusing.

Pulling his thoughts into a more current direction, the mad god straightened slightly, registering a series of syllables filtering through. Blinking languidly, he looked up at find the humans had amassed into defensive positions, guns at the ready as a tall man in a leather eye patch and a black trench coat approached, his single visible eye scanning the scene with a distinctly wary, unpleasant expression. The man next to him (_a ssoldier of ssome kind_, he thought) looked calmer, but, judging by the wary stance, might pose a threat if he reached for weapons.

"Sir, please put down the spear!"

Guns were being loaded as the man spoke, people moving as if by his unspoken command, or some emergency protocol procedure. _Hmm...The leader here, then._

Loki stared at the scepter in his hand for a moment, contemplating what to do. After a few seconds of pondering, he quietly sighed in resignation, knowing that he was, if not outmatched in brute force, outnumbered. Turning inward, he spoke up.

W_hat sshould we do? _he asked.

The symbiote flickered within their shared mindscape, a rippling wavelength of wild intent surging with suggestions that bloomed from colours and feelings. The faint undercurrent of blue, the colour of a deep, royal shade so much unlike the eye-searing neon of the Tesseract, bolstered a needed sense of calm, while the whirling background mass of grey reassured him of support, the blossoms of orange radiating envigourating energy.

The colours, the emotional tints leaking from each, slowly congealed into discernible words rasped in that now-familiar low, husky lisp of a voice that reminded Loki of the ancient, dusty rustle of the well-worn book pages he had turned, ever thirsting for knowledge, in a time of youth from what seemed centuries ago. The sound was comforting, warm as summer sunlight and soft as the Allmother's smile, like the precious few embraces he knew from early days that did not have some alternative purpose behind them, but were instead given out as a gesture of unspoiled affection.

_They will try to hurt uss. Fire firsst, they will sscatter._

He turned the thought over in contemplation, thinking back on the tactics he had been taught by countless tutors and his not-father's advisers in childhood. _If we kill them, no one will know that the army approachess. We need ssome alive, to ssound the alarm, and usse for information on thiss realm. _

The entire exchange took only a moment, but it was all the time that was needed for Loki to agree to the idea. The observing humans barely had time to blink between Loki's thoughtful look at the scepter before he raised it high and fired, a blue bolt of heat blasting forth in a thick, jagged arc of light and sound.

The humans screamed, bolting like rabbits and regrouping in the corners as the surge of power exploded across the airways. Loki threw himself forward into the fray, wondering idly if the first of the army's spaceships had arrived and crashed into anything yet.

* * *

Somewhat unfortunately for the plan favouring keeping some of the humans alive, the resident dominant species seemed dismally prone to succumbing to mortal wounds like Volstagg's willpower crumbled while near food. Willfully turning a blind eye to some of the lower level workers as they ran out seemed the most viable option.

_They drop like fliess_, complained the symbiote, a faint undercurrent of purplish-black petulance lacing the words with a bitter tang like under ripe pears. _Musst be more careful, or they all die. _

_Like it'ss our fault they aren't built like uss. _

When the dust finally cleared and the sparks had stopped flying, there were agents dead on the floor, the majority either from slit throats, close range energy blasts from the scepter, or impalement through the chest or neck, and the floor was now glossed over with a sickly fresh polish of new, slowly widening pools of dark blood.

Several agents had tried to shoot at him earlier, guns firing off bullets into a cyclone of white-hot shells.

Though the bullets had proved little more of an annoyance than stinging insect bites, given the rather poor aim fueled by rage and desperation to cloud proper targeting, the symbiote hadn't taken kindly to the attack on It's host, lashing out tendrils of spikes and twisted barbs in a frenzied whirlpool of coal-black edges like rotating saw blades, and by the time the smoke had cleared, one man had been thrown clear across the room to slam into a control panel, the other two had hit the floor and a nearby pillar. None got up. The remaining lab grunts had since fled, screaming for help.

Loki straightened up, eyes surveying the destroyed laboratory, listening to the sparks go off in the far corner from a shattered control panel. Coils of cables and wire were tangled in heaps all around from the fray, like handfuls of entrails spilled from the slit open belly of some great mechanical beast. Off to the side, he could hear someone groaning.

_Aah, not all dead, then.  
_

Turning, he walked over to the shuddering form lying on his side on the floor, watching as the stocky man hauled himself into a crouching position and began pulling out a pistol.

Briefly, he entertained the idea of letting the human go to call for backup. The resulting scenario would be interesting, to say the least. But time was of the essence if the inhabitants of this realm were to be able to mount a working attack against what he'd unhappily brought them. Letting the word spread this way would only leave them scrambling in a mad panic until it was too late to crush the invading army due to sheer numbers.

If things were to go as he wanted, getting a hostage seemed the quicker way to go. Judging by the conversation with the man with the eye patch, this mortal held some sort of important position in whatever organization had built the entry portal, and they'd likely want him back before his time on Midgard was up.

_Take ssomething from them, they'll want to take ssomething_ _back_, he mused. _If we keep him alive, they'll want him returned. An aid for uss, and an added incentive for them to sstrike againsst the invading force._

The idea was too tempting to ignore.

A faint nudging from within had Loki blink in surprise, the words sinking in to register with what he _knew _was a faint aura of hope.

_If thiss doessn't work, can we eat him?_

..._No._

Altered state of self or not, Loki could not help but have some serious doubts that consumption of the local dominant species would be considered any more socially acceptable than bringing in an alien armada.

He may be a bit more unstable than he once was, but he still had standards.

The desire for food _was_ a pressing issue, however. Being denied nutrients for so long in the Void had left a constant feeling of hunger and thirst, a painful, nagging sensation that had not ceased with the arrival through the portal. Getting something to eat would relieve some of the pressure on his slowly-healing magical reserves, while simultaneously offering the opportunity to scout out the realm and its inhabitants for any potential obstacles for either side.

Pressing a hand to his abdomen, the mad god winced slightly as he felt each piece of the mended rib-cage protrude from beneath reinforced symbiote-fused skin. Despite his companion's best efforts to heal their shared vessel, the damage that could be repaired had been limited by a lack of helpful resources to aid in a complete recovery. Given that there was nothing to eat, drink, or use for spare blood in the Void, it seemed that only time and a few good meals might rectify that gap.

But food could wait for a while longer. It had been such a long time already, what was a little more waiting?

He still had a minion to convert, and an invasion to orchestrate for it's own insidious demise.

Readjusting his grip on the scepter, he walked forwards, regarding the man before him with an assessing look.

_Sstrong build, determined, loyal...yet a sspark of independent thought, how interessting...  
_

It seemed that this potential minion might bear a grudge for the mental subjugation before this all was over. The thought was worth looking into later, if it would incite the humans to further lash out.

Holding out the scepter, he leaned forwards and pressed the tip to the lean chest just as the man's fingers pressed against the trigger.

_BANG. _

An explosion of sound cracked through the air like glass breaking. Loki had stepped out of the way, but not quite out of the firing range. A dull, burning pain seared across his left side, and a howl of pain burst across the mindscape as the symbiote felt the close-range powder burn take effect. Horror and fascination rose up as Loki felt his companion's pain echo his own in a stinging reverberation.

Shuddering at the feeling of shared agony, he pressed a hand to the injury site, scrounging up a bit of magic to seal off the patch of burnt flesh, repair torn blood vessels and muscle, and begin knitting new skin together. A low hiss of pain rose up, though whether it came from himself or from the symbiote, he could not discern.

Several thin strands of ebony semi-fluid wrapped around the burn site, forming a mesh net and curling around thin fingers in an unspoken gesture of empathy. Taking a moment to drink in such freely offered comfort, he closed his eyes, waiting for the the Mind Gem's effects to take root in the human. Whispers of thought bubbled up from the man, traveling through the scepter like ghostly echos of the bullets and arrows fired from nimble fingers, a mane of fire-bright hair red as blood and poppies to wreath a pale face and hands dainty and deadly as belladonna (_Natassha Romanov_, and he found the name was softer, a former lover, perhaps?), the man with the eyepatch holding out a sizable manila folder (_Director Nicholass Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D.,_ he noted, and this one's name had respect, authority, even an ever so slight bit of veiled wariness ringing from it, and thus was definitely the leader here) next to a slightly balding figure beside him in a plain black suit and tie (_Phil Coulsson_, and the name seemed to be tinged with affection as well, so he's worth investigating later), and then a name finally flickered into existence like a candle being lit in darkness: _Agent_ _Clint Barton, code name: Hawkeye. _

Within seconds of contact with the scepter, the gun was back in its holster at the agent's side as the unnatural shade of neon blue washed slowly up sharp eyes. A series of quick blinks, and then only bright blue remained, the converted gaze now staring at the inflicted injury with a slight hint of worry.

"...I'm guessing I shouldn't have done that?"

Taking in the expression on the other man's face, Loki could think of several things that would be terribly satisfying to respond with in this moment. Unfortunately, he could not use any of them if he wanted to keep the human alive...at least, not without enacting a severe degree of bodily harm.

_**Now** can we eat him?_

_...Again, no. _

The idea _did _have a bit more appeal, now, though. _Perhapss if we get hungrier later, and there iss no other food available..._

Tucking the thought away, he lowered the scepter and spoke up.

"You have heart," he remarked calmly. "Come, we have work to do."

A sharp nod was answer enough. Turning, he began scanning the room for any signs of additional life, and a flicker of movement from the far side drew his attention: the man he now knew was called Fury had pulled the large blue glowing cube free from the portal generator and was in the midst of putting it into a dark briefcase. There was another man nearby, wearing a suit and a somewhat vacantly worried expression.

A quick tap with the scepter, and the man in the suit was assimilated. Now, on to the bigger picture: getting the cosmic cube.

Failure was _not_ an option here.

"Pleasse don't," he spoke up, "We sstill _need _that."

The single visible eye stared at him in both rage and annoyance, pressing the cube into place as he spoke. "This doesn't have to get any messier." The words are tinged with a warning bite, sharp with the confidence that only comes from the urge to strike, should hostilities escalate.

"Of coursse it doess. We've come too far for anything elsse," and the words rolled off the tongue like glass beads falling from a silken handkerchief, simple and almost disgustingly blunt in their strange state of truth. The man gave him an incredulous look, the cube still glowing brightly within its confines like some strange blue firefly, and Loki forced back, with some difficulty, the sudden burning urge to slam the sharp end of the scepter into the beacon of power and potential destruction to try and break it into a thousand fractured pieces on the spot.

The look on the human's face changed slightly, shifting to add _Who the hell are you? _or perhaps _**What** __the hell are_ _you?,_ and Loki would have taken offense to the rude demand for answers in that expression, but the Allmother had drilled enough manners in him during childhood for him to feel compelled to answer.

But it had been a long, long time, since he had last been asked his name. The symbiote did not count, as It did not _ask _so much as _understand _upon their joining; words had been a sweet dainty, but they were not _needed_ when the two of them had fused down the last molecule and become one and the same. It knew all of him, and he knew all of It, and thus the need for separate terms of address had never arisen. What was the use of declaring labels of separation when neither of them desired anything other than to continue their shared existence? The very idea stung with the bitterness of rejection, the concoction vile and unsavoury.

Taking a moment to contemplate, he took in a breath, about to speak, but the four letters he had known throughout his life as his name no longer seemed as fitting, and instead felt...lacking, a strange sense of incompleteness that he knew, as factually as the need for breath, was because that title was reserved for what once was. That name was for _one _person.

He was not alone anymore. The name was close, but not _quite _the proper fit, like a garment from youth that could still be worn, but stretched at the seams and clung a bit too tightly to skin from years of additional growth.

Loki was the one who fell off the BiFrost and was left to die. That name belonged to the dead now. He might still claim ownership of it, but he had been made anew, reforged from shadows, from cold, from wildness, and, if honesty were to be dragged forth to play witness, more than a little madness.

"Once...I _wass_ Loki, of Assgard. Now..."

The symbiote shifted, rippling across the lean expanse of flesh like the movement of a turbulent ebony sea. Looking at the slick, dark semi-fluid covering, he was reminded of the blood that bubbled up, blackened and sticky, from warriors' wounds by blades or snake bites imbibed with poison. The glistening, sickly feeling, washed away by burning healing stones, foul-tasting potions, bowls of bitter water and herbs that stung, ointments emitting rotten odours...

_The remedy and the hurt often feel one and the_ _same_, the healers had once told him, as he had watched men and women shudder and writhe in the grasp of fevered agony.

A smirk danced across the pale mouth as a word bubbled up from the link, the symbiote's voice curling around the syllables in a wisp-like, paper-thin purr within the shared mental space, stroking each piece like the silken fur of a snow leopard.

"_We _are Eitr, and we are burdened with gloriouss purposse."

A flicker of movement in the corner; the man in the flannel shirt who had stood at the control panel earlier was getting up from a kneeling position on the floor, apparently after checking for life signs in the too-still form of an agent on the ground.

"Loki? As in, brother of Thor? _That _Loki?," he inquired, brow furrowed warily.

The reaction was instantaneous: a surge of emotion blossomed within, the four letters forming the label for a being whose existence meant so many things.

A whisper of smothered, half-choked affection, the last real truth he had spoken without pain behind it in what felt like eons. _"Never doubt that I love you."_

Tendrils of still-raw pain, coals of smouldering rage, a torrent of frigid, slate-grey despair. _You didn't catch me when I let go. __You let me fall, fall down, down, down, into **their **hold, and you didn't find me, no matter how much I cried for you. You heard me when we were young, why did that end when we grew older? _

A double-ended spike of loathing. _You claimed before you reached the chin of the Allfather in height that you would kill every lasst remnant of our childhood nightmare, and then when we traveled to Jotunheim you tried to live up to that claim with all the bloody vigour of Yggdrasil-devouring Nidhogg. Did he tell you yet that meant you have to kill me too? He never claimed differently to me. Did he ever, to any at all? _

There was a faint prodding sensation from within from the symbiote, snapping him out of his darkening thoughts and pulling him back to the precarious situation.

_The human with the eye covering iss sspeaking. _

_Iss it important?_

_Let'ss ssee._

"You should know that we have no quarrel with your people," Fury spoke up, one hand held out in what appeared to be somewhat grudging placation.

"An ant hass no quarrel with a boot, and yet, here we are," came the returning quip, quick to form as the lies he had forged throughout the life he had lost after his fall, and Loki cannot help the burn of dark satisfaction in the words, because they _were _ants, in all honesty, when he had known them.

The visits he and Thor had taken to this planet, sneaking off-world in those most secret of passages to avoid the Gate-keeper's all-seeing eyes, in all the arrogant springtime bloom of adolescence, looming over the people who had stared, dirty-clothed and bug-eyed, as they had proclaimed themselves gods, drunken on their own foolishness and a power they could claim over a race of beings who had barely left their swaddling clothes in comparison to the people of Asgard in terms of the growth of burgeoning civilization. He had watched as they scurried to and fro, clustered together in budding towns and villages, ruled over by royalty of some sort, growing and harvesting and slowly, ever so meticulously, learning and adapting.

But unlike then, when he had been younger, he now thought of a very different meaning for applying the label of _ant _to a human.

Ants, he remembered, were generally weak, easily crushed when _alone_, but together...when amassed and roused to defend themselves, ants were biologically driven for unleashing a stinging, burning, chaotic hell upon whoever was foolish or mad enough to try to step on them. The anthill would surge up and eagerly consume, and all that would be left of the attempt was a corpse to be picked clean, dissected and devoured down to nothing but bare bones and teeth, bleached white by time and flesh long since stripped away by billions of hungry maws.

_Eitr, they that esscaped the Void, all to kick the anthill, all to make it bite and ssting, _the symbiote sing-songed, a dark, eerie, off-tune ditty of bitterness and bite, and Loki cannot help but sing along to it, riding the cold burn of the truth in the words until the mindscape hummed and rang with bells tinged with shadow that ebbed and flowed like the tides of the Cosmic Sea. _  
_

The human was glaring at him, that one visible eye narrowed in what was unmistakably rage as he leaned forward. "You planning to step on us, is that it?"

_No, because an opponent that cannot even musster the sstrength to fight off the bootss of one man on hiss back will sstand no chance againsst that of hundredss of thoussandss. W__e mean to kick you until you fight back and crussh the filth that we had to bring to your tiny world until they are nothing but piless of flessh and bone that not even the ravenss would be vulgar enough to try gorging themsselvess on. But if it makess you better ssuited for thiss war upon your doorsstep..._

"No, not_ yet_ at leasst. We come with glad tidingss, of a world made free. Perhapss you'd be interessted?"

On the contrary, he looked angrier than before. Perhaps he had pushed him too far? Or, possibly, too little?

"Free from _what, _exactly?"

Loki felt a slight grin tug at the side of his mouth, the scepter held loosely between thin fingers as he began moving around the room, that soul-deep, instinctive need to speak and elaborate rearing up like an incensed serpent, fangs bared and poison-drenched to drip golden death upon dark earth. To the side, Barton seemed to be regarding the conversation rather like a sparring match, eyes flicking back and forth as if unsure which person to keep focusing on. The symbiote hummed inwardly, regarding the action with an almost childish amusement.

"Freedom, of coursse. Freedom iss life'ss greatesst lie," the words are garbed in silver, but they taste poison-bitter on his tongue, because he knows _this _in itself is a lie, a charade to keep up to keep the humans angry, on their toes, because freedom, _real _freedom, is life's greatest boon and _ignorance _is the greatest lie.

He would know.

But the humans, at least these ones, don't seem to know this yet, and so he decided to continue. "Once you accept that to be true, within your heart..."

Movement blurred across the edge of his vision; the symbiote rippled nervously, a mental hiss emitted in warning of _Human behind you, behind you, sstrike firsst _and then he twisted around and the scepter connected with a flannel-clad chest. Black surged up bright eyes, then faded to neon blue, and then the man's expression became placid, almost dreamy. Loki wondered, almost idly, what the needle-sharp croons of the Mind Gem had used to convince him. A rapid succession of emotions flood through the link from the scepter for a moment, rustles of paper and scribbles of equations and a blossoming of images of that woman of Thor's and her friend, and then a name washed up like a pebble licked clean by the waves: _Dr. Erik SSelvig, asstrophyssicisst. __  
_

"...You will know peace." _Another lie, how many more before thiss iss over? How many musst feel the too-bright glow that will burn out their thoughtss and leave them puppetss for merely another puppet in turn to pull their sstringss for dancing?_

Judging by Fury's expression, he's not agreeing to this either. "Yeah, you say peace, I kind of think you mean the other thing. That's not a good choice to make here."

_You'd be right, but neither do you know how many timess recently **I've** been wanting to be wrong. I tried war once, and look where it got me. Pain and abandonment at the bottom dregss of the Nine Realmss, kicked and beaten, whipped like an unruly cur into grudging obedience. Thiss iss not the game I like to play, that **we **like to play, this brutissh sshow of unrefined sstrength and no real proper planning, but you don't know that, either, do you?_

But before further barbs can be traded, a soft coughing became audible, filtered through with help from the symbiote, and Loki's gaze flickered from the man with the eyepatch to the newly changed Hawk. Barton's expression had become slightly worried as he looked up at the vacuum chamber of the ceiling, and it soon became apparent why: the Tesseract's glowing like a supernatural beacon, lighting up the top of the room with an energy cloud bursting with plumes of white-blue flame and light, rapidly building up to what looked to be a potential implosion.

"Sir, Director Fury is only stalling. This place is about to blow and drop a hundred feet of rock on us. He means to bury us."

The cold glint in the single eye was calm, absolute, stoic as the mountains, imposing as the great trunk of Yggdrasil. "Like the pharaohs of Odin."

Loki merely blinked at the comment, wondering if it had really been so long since his last visit that the humans now confused the burial rituals of ancient Egypt with those of the Asgardians and ancient Nordic peoples, and then Selvig spoke up, looking worried.

"He's right, the portal is collapsing inward. You've got maybe 2 minutes before this goes critical."

_Hmm, in that casse..._

"Well, then...," he spoke up, "let'ss get going, sshall we?"

A slight jerk of the head is shown to Barton, and, as predicted of his new assistant, the man pulled out the pistol and fired, the _bang _echoing off the walls as Fury crumpled to the ground like a marionette whose strings have been cut. The briefcase containing the Tesseract's picked up and snapped shut, and then they leave the laboratory with due haste. Judging by Selvig's darting glances at the locked case, the mind that Loki had seen full of equations and a burning need for knowledge was already proverbially salivating in anticipation of examining the cosmic cube.

_We sshould have eaten the one-eyed one._

_No, if we did that, he wouldn't be able to ssound the alarm afterwardss. Barton sshot him, but he won't bleed out before he can alert the other people in the building._

_Sstill think we sshould have gotten a bite. _

_If we eat everything you ssay desservess to be eaten, there would be no humanss left in the facility._

_Don't care, sstill hungry, and you ssaid the Hawk wass not for eating..._

_...No, we can't eat the sscientisst either._

_...One bite? _

_...No._

* * *

The humans were certainly a persistent lot, he had to give them that.

The pursuit Fury and his people had given during their escape from S.H.I.E.L.D. had been quite an impressive set of maneuvers, but the facility's bunker had come fully equipped with more than enough cars to load up with stolen equipment and converted agents for a proper getaway. Firing at them from atop the bed of a Midgardian truck had been quite the novel experience, although the drive-by shooting had been a bit difficult to pull off while the vehicle was going at such a rapid speed. The tunnel collapse, at least, looked as if it would delay them for a time, given the amount of rocks that had fallen.

The helicopter had, admittedly, been a _tad _enjoyable to blast apart, but the Director had fired out of it at one of his minions, which was unacceptable. Loki had no intention of doing _everything_ on his own, the very concept was exhausting. In order for the plan to work, Barton had to live, and bullets were an obstacle in the way of that objective.

But the human had also possessed the sense to jump out and survive, so the overall damage, he decided, was minimal in that case.

The research facility, however, did not seem likely to be ignored as easily. The Tesseract's earlier energy buildup had swallowed the building, and a good expanse of the surrounding desert area, from existence in a hungry maw of white-hot light, vanishing in on itself as if the Norns had pulled out a few of the universe's strings and torn a star out of the night sky.

A few _bangs _echoed across the silent landscape as the truck drove out further, and as the vehicle trekked past miles of rock and sand, Loki reveled in the smirk that formed as Fury glared daggers from the other side of the desert, gun clenched tight in one gloved hand.

After a few seconds, he braced himself for the energy loss and cast a spell to listen in; the price was somewhat steep given his condition, but he needed to know as soon as possible if the humans had amassed any sort of proper offensive movement yet. If stealing an unstable power source wouldn't rouse this planet to fight, something more drastic may need to be done, and getting so many people angry at once is _exhausting_.

A moment or two of silence stretched out into miles of quiet as the tires spun across the ground, and then his efforts were rewarded as words became audible.

_"Sound the general call..."_

_"This is a LEVEL SEVEN..."_

_"...right now, we are at war."_

A beat of silence, and then a pair of words crackled through the air like a streak of lightning, words that are worrying, warming, welcoming, warning, all at once. The humans, it seems, are on their feet now, readying themselves for the next round of this game, and from what he had gleaned from the conversation, they had their potential secret weapon ready to assemble. _  
_

Loki grinned in the dark, the curved slice of bone-white glinting eerily as a crescent moon of fangs to sink into the shadows. _The Avengerss, hmm? Sso you aren't completely unprepared for thiss...you will need it, if you're to tear into the little "gift" we brought you._

The symbiote rumbled and rolled within like the clouds gathering overhead, a quivering live wire of energy that washed through their shared body like a sip of hot soup on a hunting trip's frigid night. _Fight ssoon?_

_Oh, yess. Fight **very **ssoon. _


	3. A Dash of Delirium

**A/N: A reminder for those who may or may not have read the last chapter: the storyline is _roughly_ the same, but omits what I consider the "unnecessary filler" scenes (the "assemblage" of the Avengers Initiative did occur like in the film, but "offscreen" from this story). As a result, not everything will be the same, and you can expect S.H.I.E.L.D. to hold a darker, clinical view of the God of Mischief (if you need an example, think of how humans generally view mutants in the Marvel universe: if it's not human, it doesn't deserve human rights). Also, I don't have a lot of writing experience for the more "dark" aspects of Marvel characters, so if someone's too OOC or too cold for you, I suggest that you find something else on this site to suit your tastes. **

**DISCLAIMER: As usual, I own nothing potentially financially valuable of the _Marvel_ universe, and only can claim possession of this story, nothing else. No phrases/paraphrases of the film's quotes are used with the intention of anything other than entertainment purposes.**

**WARNING: Some disturbing imagery, semi-graphic violence, foul language, gore and dark humor (this _does_ include the infamous "eyeball" scene).**

**On a less creepy note, Happy Canada Day! I hope you all enjoy this day of celebration for our lovely northern neighbors. **

* * *

It wasn't the best of bases, he grudgingly admitted, but it would serve its purposes for what he had planned.

Having left S.H.I.E.L.D. and its labyrinth of buildings, bunkers, and transportation garages behind, the next stop was to set up shop and establish a temporary headquarters with which to stockpile supplies, prepare for the invading forces, and further examine the Tesseract. Selvig had been given a space to work in, complete with multiple pieces of equipment_ liberated _from several of the best research facilities Midgard had to offer. Judging by the security he had been forced to infiltrate for such pieces of technology, the _CERN _facility the humans had made would be most upset to find their entire particle physics laboratory had vanished. Hopefully the magic expenditure would be worth it, as he did not think he currently had sufficient energy to placate the symbiote enough to prevent the consumption of the scientist in retaliation otherwise.

Watching the scientist working frantically upon the CMS device as if it were a flame to be stoked in defiance of a raging blizzard, he took in the sight of dark, puffy bags under the man's wild-looking eyes, the sweaty forehead, increasingly shaking hands, and rapid breathing, and wondered if he should command the human to rest before he killed himself through overwork. The idea of procuring another scientist specializing in the Tesseract seemed tedious, too time-consuming, and having human deaths pile up on his hands unnecessarily would only lead to more savagery from the opposing side. He wanted their ire roused and their fighting forces ready, but to stroke the flames of war too well would lead to the inferno raging out of control, and leave _all_ burned in its wake.

Engineering such meticulously choice destruction was not an easy task, but keeping the kill count unpredictably low for an invasion could have potential benefits later. A reduced prison sentence, perhaps? A few seeds of doubt sowed?

Contemplation, however, could wait. He had known the risks, and now, he had to play the game.

Taking a moment, Loki dismissed the humans from the room, ordering a halt of operations for a few short hours of recuperation. Waiting a few moments in the quiet, he relaxed slightly as he took in a deep breath, his body resonating with the macabre siren song of the symbiote's inner movements, feeling the caress of the dark tendrils around bones, bathing flesh, binding with blood, the shared heartbeat echoing with a continuous repetition forged in the crucible of the dark chrysalis they had clawed their way out of onto a barren belt of rocks a million miles away.

_Da, Da, Da, Da... _

The faster cardiac muscle movement throbbed almost painfully beneath his ribs, the physical changes pumping blood far more quickly throughout the body for rapid-fire oxygen distribution to muscle mass. He felt a thrumming in his limbs, the need for movement a not-quite-painful ache, a mild burning that would grow to a raging inferno when the time for battle came knocking like the hands of the dead. The symbiote was in a constant restless state, and he found himself much the same way, unease pricking needle-sharp teeth into his senses as he waited warily for further instructions.

He _hated _taking orders, and being forced to wait for commands like a common hunting hound was a degradation too disgusting to bear sparing thoughts for. Even grudgingly done, the act was equivalent to crawling belly-first through the mud and muck like a lowly beast, and only the thought of dragging his unholy "employer" through the same sludge before a slow, agonizing demise was enough to make him bend enough for the barest impression of kneeling upon the ground.

But he needed to report, or else the Mad Titan may become suspect that something was amiss, and neither he or his companion felt eagerness concerning the prospect of _more _torture.

Lowering himself to the floor to recline, he let the noisy hum of machinery from the surrounding laboratory fall away, ebbing into the background as the symbiote fluttered within, spinning a cocoon of mental barriers as he added his own contribution, weaving protective spells together in an interlocking series of traps and mazes to protect their mind with the aid of misdirection and years of meticulous mental encryption; all the while, damage done by the Mind Gem was being continuously repaired by both occupants as best as possible. The work was arduous and lengthy, but fortifying their sanctuary would be well worth the effort in the end.

Neither of them could afford to lose their only proper stronghold. A man's home may be his castle, but the only palace he held residence in now was of the mind, and if that was laid siege to successfully, both he and the symbiote would be conquered and torn down into ruin, and all would go with them into the darkness. To fall to such a scourge of destruction would leave naught but all-devouring time to fling them into the cold, misty arms of death, and all things worse.

Preparation was key to survival in this game. Spells and webbing would offer little protection from the horrors the mind could produce when under mental torture, but even a scrap of protection was better than none at all. Meditation would send him back to the Mad Titan for a report on the invasion, but it would also help keep him calm during the interrogation on his progress.

Slowly but surely, the room began to fade away into darkness, giving way to frigid air, shadowed rocks, and an unsettling sensation of entrapment as the throne room of the Other materialized around him. The symbiote shifted uneasily, rippling across and under skin like a cloak in the wind, and after a few moments, settled into place as what Loki found, with a bit of surprise, was an exact replica of his armor, complete with the horned helmet he had lost upon the BiFrost. The weighted sensation was oddly comforting, and a wave of silent gratitude welled up at the gesture; even if the armor held little use in their current position, the symbolic support offered was clear, every particle of fabricated protection pressing in like a full-body shield.

Shivering slightly from the oppressive atmosphere, he approached the throne and its occupant, head bowed slightly in a pretense of deference as he waited to be addressed. The shadows flickered somewhere out of sight, the air strung with minuscule ice crystals like a yuletide wreath of tiny blades.

"The Chitauri grow restless, little godling. Had I known it would take you so long to prepare for the invasion, I would have offered you a more _potent_ incentive for your compliance."

The look upon the dark face was unsettling, a closed off expression of cold detachment with pitiless eyes that hinted of rage simmering under the surface, ready to strike out like an incensed serpent. Loki stifled the unpleasant urge to shudder, the symbiote twisting in place to strengthen the armor around his torso and reinforce Itself around vital organs in a silent attempt to help calm his increasingly palpitating heartbeat.

"Let them go at themselvess," he said, mind furiously calculating placations to offer, "thinning the rankss will weed out any potentially unfit troopss. They will be led, all of them, into gloriouss battle againsst thosse that opposse your will."

The dark expression did not waver in response, and the unnerving chatter of the creatures lurking in the shadows compelled a mounting sense of unease as laughter boomed out from the hulking figure on the throne. "Battle, you claim? Against the meagre might of Midgard? They are but insects, fit to be crushed like vermin."

_Clearly you have never sseen an anthill devour a fallen foe and pick itss bones clean of flessh, if you have ssuch confidence in your victory thiss early in the game, filth. _

Though it took all his resolve not to speak it, he managed to quell the urge to rush in, bandying words like his lost knives. To go into battle, even a battle of words, could so easily wreck his plans with as much regard as a rock through rice paper, and here, summoned to this inhospitable place, he was without proper firepower as backup. The symbiote was a wild card to this game, running off instinct and emotional responses; to reveal his companion's presence, even in self defense, would render It vulnerable to the Other, and both of them vulnerable to additional punishment. He could only be grateful that the altered speech patterns, at least for the moment, seemed to go unnoticed.

Loki stood silently for a moment, head bowed so as not to look into the soulless gaze and find himself lacking nerve. He could not afford it, _they _could not afford it, not in this crucial moment when lying was so important. Summoning his nerve, he forced back the urge to shout slurs against his "handler" and struggled to curb his tongue.

"Gloriouss, not lengthy...," and yet here, it seemed, he could not restrain himself, "_If _your force iss truly the formidable army you claim."

For a moment, there was nothing but a terrible, ugly silence, and he cursed himself for the loose hold on his words. Anger, fear, gnawing hunger, and so little sleep were indeed a terrible combination to endure during a progress report.

The walls began to quake ominously, the air seeming to thin out and compress itself as the cold grew bone-deep. "You _dare _question us?," came the deadly hiss, "You question _HIM?_ He, who put the scepter in your hand, who gave you ancient knowledge when you were cast out, defeated, a lowly beast left to rot at the bottom of the universe like so much garbage?"

At this, indignation bubbled up like fresh blood from half-healed scars, and rage along with it, scorching and heady as a strong draft of mead, burning the inside of his throat as he spat out the words like a mouthful of charred meat. The altered speech warped slightly, twisted back into a parody of his old mannerisms as bitter memories welled up.

"_I _wass a king! The rightful king of Assgard, betrayed, betrayed by thosse under my rule, the pack of turncoatss! I held the throne ass wass decreed by the Allmother, and _sstill _they left to fetch their golden prince, like a flock of losst ssheep braying for their wayward idiot ssheperd!"

The symbiote's writhing like a nest of kicked serpents, strong and primal and singing along in a duet to the hymns of the dark rage that threatened, for a blistering, frightening moment, to consume him. But the anger is on his behalf, a hissing, spitting, venomous creation baring fangs to defend It's host, a nest that is home and haven in the dark, cold reaches of this ugly rock so many stars away from Midgard, and plans, and the base they had left to report to this _thing. _Loki, having to fight to push down his own tempestuous emotions, could barely hold back the tangled, squirming mass of semi-fluid from pouring forth from their shared body and exposing the front of deference, even grudging deference, that they've put up.

But it appeared, at least for now, that the outburst of rage and vitriol would be brushed aside in favor of the proverbial bigger picture. If he did not feel such a sense of relief upon seeing the almost bored expression upon the Other's visage, he would almost feel insulted.

"Your ambition is _little_," came the derisive drawl, "Born of childish need and foolish rage. We look beyond the realm of Midgard, to the greater worlds that the Tesseract will unveil for us."

A smirk slithered into place at these words, despite the spark of rage still smouldering within. He may have been the most level-headed of his age group back in Asgard, but he had not survived in a world of brutish force with his knives alone.

As it was, the urge to take a vocal jab at the being before him was too tempting to resist, punishment be damned for now. He had orders, but he would not crawl like a starving hound for them; shackled under the chains of his employment he may be, but they had not broken him, not enough to leave him fully compliant. He could suffer a few burns to play with fire yet.

Besides, if he could not have a little fun in this unhappy errand, what was the _point_?

"You don't have the Tessseract _yet_."

The lunge taken by the Other in his direction in response was both a slight shock and the inspiration for a jolt of adrenaline-laced fear; within a millisecond, instinct took over and the scepter's held in front of him, the sharp tip extended and glinting like a pinprick of diamond in the light of the throne room. The symbiote let out a cacophony of mental noise like an angered jungle cat, yowling a mental drumbeat of battle as blood thundered through their shared body in a race to aid in the triggered "fight or flight" instinct, and it took every ounce of control he possessed to keep from letting his other half out to unleash an onslaught of destruction, as much as he desperately wanted, and still wants, to watch that dismal face contort in an macabre opera of varying agonies.

He refused to think about the slight tremor in his hands as he held the scepter before him. To dwell upon it would open up a veritable Pandora's box of unwelcome thoughts.

"We don't normally threaten, at leasst not sso..._blatantly_," he forced out, "but until _we_ open the doorss, until your force iss ourss to command, you are but wordss, and _we _are the massterss of wordss, not _you_."

The words shook, but held steady in their audibility, and he wondered, for a mad second, if he would be punished for it on the spot.

A harsh laugh, rough as nails gouging through sheets of glass, echoed suddenly through the chamber.

"You will have your war, little Asgardian. But know _this_...if you fail, if the Tesseract is kept from us, there will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice or filthy hole in the ground where he can't find you hiding. You think that you know pain, boy? He will make you _long _for something as sweet, as _forgiving_, as the gift of _pain_."

_If we hadn't been told all of thiss beforehand, perhapss it would actually be more frightening. _As it was, the parting speech held nothing he did not already fear, though fear _was_ always a powerful motivator. He forced down the urge to make another caustic remark. Acting mordant again so soon would likely lead to proper torture before he was returned to Midgard, and far worse than his time in the Void, if the look on the Other's visage was anything to go by.

Silence filled the air, stifling and cold, as the Other reached out and placed a large, bear-like hand on his head. Loki forced himself to ignore the instinctive urge to shudder and draw back as energy rushed forth and all but flung both himself and the symbiote back through the tempestuous connection to Midgard.

Slamming into the harsh surface of the floor, he watched through a dim haze of pain as the portal closed back up again.

As the lingering soreness began to recede, a slick, coppery tang became uncomfortably noticeable, and he spat out a mouthful of blood, wiping away the remnants of the spit ichor with the back of a scraped hand. _Admittedly, that could have gone much worsse._

_We sshould have eaten him. Firsst the Hawk, then the sscientisst and the one-eyed one, and now the nassty thing that called you garbage. Sso much food left untouched...he looked sso crunchy, too._

Loki stared at the fading remnants of the portal, considering the idea in light of the unpleasant conversation at the other end of the universe. His companion _did_ sound rather put out...

_...Next time, promisse, flessh and boness and all. _

For now, he had to prepare. According to the clock installed on the wall before him, the humans would be coming back soon, and the next stage of the plan was to commence shortly after.

_No resst for thosse like uss, hmm?_

The symbiote rumbled in agreement. _None, but food would be good. _

* * *

The artwork, he admitted mentally, was rather beautiful to look at. The brief visionary respite before the horror began was appreciated, with the breathtaking rainbow of colours done by meticulous hands centuries ago offering a subtle treat for the two of them. The symbiote took to observing the observational feast of Midgardian artwork with vigour, taking in the faint scents of dried paints, charcoals, and marble and coaxing the multitude of colours to bloom across the shared mental landscape like a blossoming field of wildflowers, the simple joy in the activity easily contagious.

With the base established and a series of backup plans thought out for emergencies, the next stop was to secure a proper supply of iridium to stablize and secure the Tesseract's power. The Hawk was to take care of stealing a cache of the substance, but a distraction was required in order to divert the public's attention sufficiently away, as well as a scan of the retina of one of the humans attending the art gala, as the vault of iridium was apparently important enough to warrant extra identification.

Loki, being mostly estranged from attention, found the opportunity to act as said distraction rather refreshing.

Given that S.H.I.E.L.D. would likely have begun broadcasting images of both himself and the missing personnel as soon as they had traveled out of tracking range, Loki had decided to change his appearance so as to better blend in with the masses of humans running around. Numerous moments of observation of the local populace were gained from the minds of the converted S.H.I.E.L.D. agents using a brush of the scepter, and after a few cursory checks to ensure the validity of said information, an suitable set of apparel was chosen.

It was true that the scarf could be considered a _bit_ much, but the green and gold motif felt too close to his signature colours to give up. The suit and long coat, at the very least, offered a modicum of camouflage within this place, given the amount of humans swanning around in designer finery and glittering jewelry like dozens of strange, silk-robed peacocks. Fluted glasses of fine wine and champagne drifted through the sea of coiffured heads and swanlike necks, floating on silver trays acting as elegant rafts pushed about by black-gloved zephyrs of manicured hands. Tiny platters of treats flitted here and there, bearing aloft offerings of bite-size meats and cheeses upon wafer-thin crackers and aromatic bread slices. Music from a sizable orchestra wafted through the air, the notes shining like fireflies on a summer evening.

But time was of the essence, and he needed to initiate the next phase of the game.

Taking one last look at the art piece before him, he turned and began the journey down to the floor below, focusing on the faint _thud, thud, thud _of the scepter, now sporting the appearance of a long, elegant cane topped with a faceted, jewel-like version of the Mind Gem. The sound echoed like the mourning bell of a church during a wake, distant and haunting, a reminder that from here on out, the game would get far, far more dangerous.

Looking down at the mob of people knotted together, he began scanning the crowd for the target human. The symbiote twisted in place, resettling into It's more favoured internal place of cocooning around the god's ribcage, and, after a moment, spoke.

_Too many humanss to pick through. Eyess need to ssee better!_

_What do you ssuggesst?_

A second, then two, flickered by, as quick as the flutter of a hummingbird's wings, and then a tingling sensation built up behind his eyes as the symbiote surged forwards and then around the optic disk and nerves, seeping into blood vessels. Darkness pooled across his vision for a brief moment before receding like the ebb of the tide as the familiar semi-liquid state of his companion flowed across the cornea and pupil of each eye. It took all the self-control he had not to adversely react to the temporary vision impairment, the instinctive surge of panic at the sudden loss of sight warring with the knowledge that the symbiote would never do anything to cause him injury._  
_

When the darkness cleared away, he had to blink for several seconds, trying to reconcile his previous vision with what was now before him: everything now looked much like how it should through a high-definition lens, with the colours vibrant and each detail as wickedly sharp as his lost knives. The sensational input was quite staggering.

Within a few seconds, the enhanced vision became of use as the human was spotted talking to the crowd at a low podium, and Loki began descending the rest of the stairway, ignoring the urge to move at a less sedate pace. If he hurried too quickly, the other occupants of the building may become worried that something was amiss, and having to resort to teleportation or illusion-induced disguises to return to such a regal event without suspicion being cast upon him would be unpleasantly draining. No food or drink had been consumed since arriving on Midgard, and depleting his magic reserves unnecessarily was an ugly idea.

As he reached the ground floor, the humans chattering away carelessly in glittering clusters like handfuls of raw gems, the symbiote flattened It's hold on the scepter ever so slightly, reducing the density of the semi-fluid parts of Itself flowing around the surface. If the scepter was reinforced _too _well in the next few moments, their target's skull might cave in from the solidity of the weapon on contact, and it would be unlikely that enough of an eye could be scavenged to be used as a passkey. To add further cause for restraint, the human capacity for violence and gore might be rather spectacular at times, but witnessing a man lose an eye would likely be a bit less traumatizing than seeing the entire head cave in like rotted fruit. S.H.I.E.L.D. _was _still hunting for him, so it was best to _try _to keep the bloodshed to a minimum.

Ten steps, then several more, and they're in attacking range. The target human barely had time to blink before the scepter's swung like a baseball bat and made its collision with the side of the man's head along with a brutally satisfying _crack_, and then he dropped as quickly as if a switch had been flipped. As Loki seized the human by the nearest available body part in range (and the back of that neck was rather pudgy, perhaps the human indulged in too many sweets), he wondered, almost absentmindedly, who the first person to call for help was. There's certainly more than enough people panicking.

The stone slab, ornately carved on either side in the semblance of a pair of bulls in their prime, looked rather promising for the humans to have a good view of the watered-down carnage. Shoving the clearly confused and petrified man onto the art piece, he pulled out the rather strange item Barton had told him to use, wondering for a split second how the narrow silver tube would be able to retrieve an eyeball.

_Am I to place it over the human'ss eye ssocket and have it ssuck out the required organ? _

The answer to such questioning was given seconds later, as a sharp set of rotatable pincers opened up, whirring like a set of miniature bone saws and glowing blue as the Tesseract. Without pausing, he slammed the device into place, and the screams emitted in response as the man twitched and spasmed on the hard rock were disgustingly promising.

_Aah, sso **that'ss** how it workss. Fasscinating._

The people around them continue to scream and cry, babble frantically for help in all sorts of languages, or run out the doors as if the hounds of Helheim have scented their flesh, and the situation would be almost funny in a horrifying way, but there's a man pinned against the stone slab like some morbid offering to the gods, as if to hold out for each their own pound of flesh. He thought of what was occurring on the other end of the torturous-looking instrument, at the three-dimensional eyeball scan forming in midair, floating in the clawed grip of the twin to this strange tool with the help of the Hawk.

The iridium would be secured quite soon, if all went well. Perhaps it was lucky for the humans that such a thing was so, for if not, a mass silencing charm would not go amiss in this crowd, even if would cause _more _chaos._  
_

Judging by the razor-sharp tips being used to clench the eye in place and pull it forwards to the scanner in the center of the tube, the fragile bit of anatomy would likely be useless by the time the scanning was completed. Darkening streams of a pinkish hue had already begun to seep out from between the bruised, pried open eyelids and sharp lengths of metal, an indication of the bursting of fragile blood vessels. If he forced any more pressure on the eye socket, the organ would likely rupture, and then there would be vitreous fluid clogging up the delicate parts of the machine.

_Hmm...it appearss we're in luck. Thiss human issn't going to need thiss any longer._

_Doess that mean...?_

_Yess, now eat up. _

The symbiote needed no more motivation; a column of glistening ebony seemingly _melted_ off the god's coat sleeves, surging forward and and reaching out a half-dozen pencil-thin tendrils to wrap around the point of connection between the human and the pincers. With a sickening squelch, It poured into the cracks. The man's struggling and shrieking resumed afresh for several long moments, before he shuddered and finally went limp, slumping into a faint across the gold-plated surface of the slab.

The humans were screaming even more now; one elderly woman had even collapsed into her husband's arms and was being revived with the help of a lace fan. But the noise was rather unimportant in comparison to the bombardment of sensations being caused by the consumption of the eyeball.

When he and the symbiote had bonded, he had understood, on an instinctive level, that they would share and experience everything. But he not quite expected _this._

The taste was _ambrosial. _The cornea dissolved like wet tissue paper, and the iris, the pupil within it, and the lens followed in rapid succession with a mild, slightly sweet flavour, like bubbles of slow-burning smoke with a dusting of sugar. The layers of flesh compounding the eye were stripped off one by one like carving slivers of well-done brisket, the jelly-like vitreous humor sucked cleanly away as the optic disk and nerves were engulfed. An explosive palette of colours bloomed as each flavour registered, creating sparks of smoky mauve, whorls of shimmering coral, streaks of milky jade and pinpricks of gossamer-thin champagne. Within a few short moments, the entire socket was stripped and sterilized, ensuring no additional leakage, and a minuscule dose of sealing magic repaired and blocked off the tearing point left by the loss of the optic nerve's former connection to the brain.

Loki let out a low hum of satisfaction as the last of the globular organ disappeared entirely. _Chewier than expected, and a bit too watery at the front, but certainly not unpalatable. _

Their shared mind resonated with the sound of the symbiote's purr of fulfillment, the raw edge of that old, gnawing hunger having been sated, at least for now._ Yess, deliciouss._

* * *

By now, the room had been emptied (though the echoing screams of terrified humans still could be heard beyond the hall doors), he had gotten what he had come for, and a light snack had even been procured. _Not too sshabby. Now, on to the next move._

Pulling the clawed grip free of the now vacant eye socket, the device retracted in on itself, refolding back into a slim silver tube that was dropped into a coat pocket with ease. Humming, the god straightened up, turned away from the prone man lying in a stupor on the slab, and began to walk towards the exit doors. The symbiote flickered and rippled, a twisting shadow of motion that warped the suit, scarf, tie, and other such accessories, reemerging as the catsuit that allowed freer movement. Loki could only marvel inwardly at the rapid changes: a few seconds of blinking, and the deceptively fragile-looking body covering was in place, form-fitting and pleasantly warm in the cool night air of Stuttgart. Instead of his former horned helmet, the symbiote had extended several large tendrils and fused them together to create a pair of twisted, curved horns on either side of his head, the tips sharp and the spiral pattern an unearthly shade of shadow-tinted grey-blue that loomed out of dark hair like some eerie rendition of a royal circlet. The effect was startling, despite being oddly light in weight.

_At leasst, in termss of advantageouss traitss, it'ss lesss perceptible combat gear than my actual battle armor..._

Judging by the low, rumbling purr resonating through their shared body, the symbiote agreed wholeheartedly.

Having reached the red-carpeted front entrance, he regarded the massive flood of terrified people, several running with stilettos swinging from manicured hands to help flee the scene without breaking a heel in the process. Screams lit up the air like close-range fireworks as men and women dashed across streets and even a nearby park to escape the horror that had been witnessed. Throngs of civilians who had not been privy to the scene of forced extraction were becoming increasingly worried and confused, milling around and trying to grab the nearest shrieking gala-goer by the arm to ask what had happened.

An incoming vehicle careened towards him as he stepped out into the streets, tires shrieking fit to break glass from the decibel level reached. Loki watched it for a moment, wondering if it was worth an expenditure of his magic to blast it apart for generating such an annoying noise. High-speed rubber spinning upon hard pavement was proving rapidly to be a _touch_ too shrill after listening to the screaming of dozens of frightened humans during an organ extraction such a short time ago, and the symbiote's own reaction to the noise was not empathetic either, darkening shades of grey displeasure rumbling through the mental landscape like rain-heavy storm clouds.

The sound grew closer, and one split-second decision later, the car was a newly lit mass of metal and robin's egg-blue flames left to flip and twist for several mad seconds, before finally coming to a stop upside-down by a nearby neon-lit cinema. Half a dozen people coming out of the nearby shops held out phones to record the anomaly.

A few moments passed as he weaved through the crowd, partially surprised by the lack of recognition shown as he walked through the human ranks like a ghost. Perhaps the panic overrode it?

_In that casse, let'ss give them ssomething new. _

Running forwards, he vaulted over a park bench, several fleeing people, and a good stretch of pavement before landing, feet-first and straight-backed, in front of the nearest crowd, the scepter held out like a sword as the Mind Gem glowed violently. The symbiote rippled and surged across It's host, jagged shards of hardened semi-fluid appearing and disappearing haphazardly like a mad scientist's quilting pattern. Behind the expanding throngs of people, a portion of magic had been sacrificed for the creation of temporary duplicates to add to the intimidation.

Staring at the mass of humans, he considered the idea of bluntly demanding the submission of the populace. Several were quivering fit to wake the dishonored dead of Helheim as it was, and the smell of urine from the far side of the crowd left a telltale sign that someone had been frightened enough to soak themselves. _Given the fear rolling off them at the moment, there **iss **a chance they may give it to uss to prevent further desstruction..._

Brute force was not his preferred forte, given his strength in subtlety and the more silent dismantling and eradication of the enemy. But if the shock and awe approach would fan the flames of the opposition a little higher, a little closer to scalding, why not?

_Taunt the enemy enough and they'll come charging after you sseeing red, wanting nothing lesss than your head on a plate, bloody and raw. _

If the humans thought the enemy was the army he had been made to drag to their world, so much the better. Fostering a desire to eradicate what they believed to be a manifestation of his darker desires would only serve him well. Given the amount of people in this realm, it would assuredly be only a matter of time before the organization he'd stolen the Tesseract from would be mounting an offensive, and the rest of humanity would likely follow in such aggressive footsteps if their precious world was at stake.

It was really only a matter of taste, in the end, and even if he wasn't overly fond of the idea of shouting and demanding a successful subjugation to his whims as he had been forced to bear witness to countless times in youth by a certain God of Thunder, it would serve its purpose. A crude purpose, but a purpose nonetheless.

If he wanted to get humanity's attention, it seemed that throwing a right proper tantrum would be a choice option. It would attract the attention of the parental policing forces of this world, and when that happened, someone would be sent in to either apprehend or eradicate him. There would be no better way to warrant capture than by a show of theatrics, clear as a rescue beacon for gaining notice.

The path to take was clear. _Time to put on a little sshow._

He regarded the masses before him, scanning the frightened, sweaty faces and trembling hands, and felt a shiver of the old arrogance that had bubbled up like primordial ooze from the earth when he had visited, a thousand celestial axis-tilts and haggard lunar cycles ago, when he and his not-brother had been younger, drunk on a fermented brew of pride, power, and the foolish naivete knighted by the double-edged sword of a privileged existence.

"_Kneel_."

The word was laced with energy, solid as steel wrapped in silk, cutting as a guillotine. A quick, silent amplifying charm sent the syllables resonating throughout the block, clear as water in a cup.

Barely a heartbeat passes before those before him begin dropping to their knees, fear plainly visible in their eyes as they cringe and move as gingerly as if the ground was covered in broken glass and there were no shoes to cover feet.

_The act needss to be a bit more convincing, don't you agree?_

_Doess thiss mean more sstrutting? _

_Why not?_

He allowed a smile to form as he began walking forwards, inwardly wishing the motion didn't look as forced as it felt. This would not be an easy trick to pull off, but the payoff would be substantial if done right.

"Well, iss thiss not simpler for you, your _natural _sstate of being? Iss thiss not the unsspoken _truth _of humanity, the internal craving of ssubjugation, the freedom of allowing thosse above to make all the sserious choicess? You feel the lure of freedom, sstarlike in itss brilliance, sso bright it blindss you to all elsse, and in doing sso you are _losst, _losst in the mad sscramble for power, for identity, for_ undersstanding_. It diminisshess your life'ss joy, cutting it down to worry and fear, and to ssave yourselves you look for guidance, be it under your religion, your governing body, your family head. You were _made _to be ruled, and in the end, you will always kneel, because that iss how you know peace, the blisss of knowing ressponsibility resstss upon the sshoulderss of another, that you cannot be held accountable when wrongdoing befallss the world you know. You are freed from the sshackless of blame."

The crowd stared back, gazing at the shining blue light of the Mind Gem like mice enthralled by the hypnotic sway of a serpent preparing to strike. He wondered who would have enough bravery, or potentially foolishness, to speak up and ignore the command of submission; not everyone could be expected to listen in a crowd, past memories of angered patrons in Asgard's bars had proven that innumerable times when they did not get their order of mead by a pretty wench in time.

A lone man, an elderly native of this country by the look of it, stood up defiantly, a blatant discoloration among the sea of kneeling, prostrate civilians.

"No, I won't. Not to men like you."

_Aah, we finally get a rebel. How refresshing. _

"I'm afraid you musst be misstaken, then, for there are no men like me." _I'm not a man, after all. Not anymore, if I ever wass. _

The man, to his credit, did not back down, seemingly unfazed by the rebuttal. "There will _always_ be men like you. Crazy ones, power-hungry and over their heads."

_Ssuch a fiery sspirit you have, you do not bend to the howling of the wind, do you, mortal? You are a mountain, unmoving, unchanging in your way of life. You will not bow to me. If there were more men like you, there would be no need for thosse like me to balance thiss out._

The symbiote shifted in place, anger bubbling up at the human's words of derision. Loki could not blame It, as this had been a rather long, tiring day. _**More** inssulting of hosst? We ought to eat you, melt the flessh from your boness, boil blood in veinss, chew off your-! _

_No, leave him. There iss not enough meat on him, and too many people will panic and try to pull him away before we could feed. We do not know where thosse handss have been, remember? _

But the human was, nonetheless, posing somewhat of a threat to the persuasive speech uttered earlier. Perhaps a silencing spell could be done, or a hex to vanish his mouth to shock him into silence? Public execution seemed too gory, but if he could go through all but the final motion of the act, the fear and suspense would serve well into crushing any lingering doubts as to whether this was real.

_A bit too flasshy, perhapss, but it will do. If thiss doessn't capture the humanss' attention, we might need to ressort to desstroying more buildingss._

The scepter glowed brighter, now almost blinding to look at in its terrible blue brilliance, and the humans began another round of screams, plainly horrified at the thought of witnessing public slaughter. Loki stared at the defiant man before him, refusing to cower even in the face of apparent death, eyes clear and unwavering as they met his own. Holding the weapon aloft, he looked over the aged frame, drawing out a few seconds in the act of scanning for the best spot to attack. In the distance, someone began crying.

_According to Barton, there are billionss of people in thiss realm, and millionss in thiss country alone. How iss it posssible that there issn't ssome ssort of offenssive ressponsse by thiss point-?_

Sirens blared out in the distance, loud and shrill and haunting; apparently, someone had finally managed to get in contact with law enforcement. He wondered if any of the humans' televised media had picked up on tonight's events yet.

The glow of the scepter's painful to witness now, glowing like with the blue-white flame of an impossibly captured supernova, and there's only a few moments longer that he can draw this out, people already were shifting in the background, restless, worried-

The scepter's light bursts open like a cracked egg, screams echoing in the background, and the old man _still_ doesn't move-

_Clang. _Slightly dazed from his sudden impact with the ground, Loki stared for a moment, analyzing what had suddenly appeared before him: a muscular man, young in appearance but with too-old eyes, clad in the most eye-searing combination of red, white, and blue he had seen since he had cursed Thor's favorite cape to turn into an itchy, powder blue rug smelling of unwashed bilgesnipe fur when they were several centuries old and the blonde fool had gone and spilled mulberry juice on his favorite incantation text. The elderly man, it appeared, had been saved from what would have likely been a searing-hot agonizing demise by the impromptu arrival of a large, circular shield held on the newcomer's arm, made of what seemed to be quite a powerful substance, considering that it had deflected the scepter's energy bolt so easily.

_Finally, the idiot cavalry arrivess._

Blinking the abrupt presence of flickering starlight from his vision, it became audible after a moment or two that the new human's talking. _It took them dayss to sscrounge together an offenssive front and their opening force sspendss it **talking**? There wass sspeaking during our arrival, but at leasst we fought in addition to it. Iss there a point to thiss without action to accompany it? _

"...we ended up disagreeing with each other. I'm not exactly fond of the bullying type, see."

Getting up, for a split second, proved to be nauseating, and he resisted the urge to vomit. _Whatever material that sshield iss comprissed of, it'ss quite ssolid. _

_Can we eat it?_

_...I don't think it'ss edible, but if he triess ussing it for a weapon, you're welcome to try. Perhapss the metal content will hold ssome nutritional value if abssorbed._

But the man with the shield's still looking at him, and a second glimpse of the round potential projectile jogged a chunk of memory viewed from Barton. _Hmm, sso that'ss who thiss iss...the good Captain'ss come to play hero, then. _

Spitting out a mouthful of pink-tinged saliva, Loki assessed the new opponent. _Sshield iss held primarily on the arm or one-handed, posssible hidden projectile weapon, likely a handgun like Barton hass. No true body armor ssave for the ssuit, but the material doess not look ssufficiently sstrong enough to withsstand intensse damage...no, torsso iss a bit too bulky, ssome ssort of protective encassement for the chesst cavity, then?_

"A ssoldier, then, aren't you? A man out of time..."

By the grim expression on the other man's face, this cannot end well. "_I'm_ not the one who's out of time here."

The sound of rotating propellers overhead drew attention to the sky: a large aircraft (the _Quinjet, _Barton had called it) was hovering above the scene, a large, fierce-looking gun pointed directly at him by a beautiful-looking redhead (_Natassha Romanov_, one of Barton's precious people, he recalled). Loki cannot help but wonder slightly at the sheer madcap audacity of it; do they even _remember _that bullets were, and likely always would be, next to useless concerning himself and his companion?

It appeared, at least for now, that such a crucial tidbit of information had been forgotten, as the woman was speaking, as assuredly and coldly as the formation of a glacier in winter. "Loki, drop the weapon and stand down, or the machine gun here's going to empty a round into your skull."

_I don't think sso. _

The scepter begins to glow again, for a split second becoming blinding, and then a bolt of sizzling blue energy shot out, careening toward the Quinjet like an attracted magnet. But Romanov, it appeared, was too smart for such a blatant move, and maneuvered her craft out of the way, albeit just in time, and in that exact moment, Rogers took the opportunity to fling his shield like the world's most potentially deadly boomerang. Dodging the blow leaves the sound of unearthly ringing in the air and a new long, shallow cut across Loki's jaw, and then the shield ricocheted back as if pulled on a string.

The crowd let out an explosion of cheering, frightened and exhilarated all at once.

The symbiote's mental shriek of rage at the injury, slight as it was, to It's host left the catsuit covering warping like a melting oil painting, and then the world dissolved into a series of punches, kicks, and tackles as Rogers took the opportunity to unleash a good seven decades' worth of repressed street-fighting and newly acquired boxing skills. The blows are solid, landing like a hail of rocks, and a new collection of bruises indeed seem a surety later on.

In turn, it was only fair to give back as good as was begotten. Twisting and squirming out of headlocks, choke holds, and other body contortions left his human opponent scrambling to keep hold, and spikes, barbs, needles, and even the improvised ridges and points of the teeth of wild predatory animals appeared repeatedly on the warping surface of the symbiote's organic material covering as Loki unleashed a series of close-range punches, the sharpened claw tips of enhanced nails tearing a half dozen new rips in the spandex of Roger's patriotic quasi-armor and drawing blood from a sizable collection of papercut-thin gouges in the skin underneath.

The shield, he had found, could be batted away with enough force put behind the blow, and watching the briefly mystified expression on the human's face when that happened was almost worth the blow to the left, then the right clavicle, in retaliation. Bruising the Captain's own collarbones with a well-placed kick had proved to be quite satisfying.

Trying, if only for the sake of theatrics, to get Rogers to kneel had been almost amusing. Getting flipped over and used as a would-be target for a sweeping kick, however, was unacceptable.

_If we can't eat the sshield, can we try and eat him?_

A sharp jab to the shoulder, and one painful refitting to readjust the dislocated bone structure later, Loki felt painfully tempted to agree.

* * *

Fighting came to an abrupt halt when the sharp, earsplitting radiance of heavy metal music erupted from the Quinjet's speakers like the siren song of some unholy parade of death, and when the one responsible for such an explosive concoction of noise finally touched down on the ground, Loki felt unsure whether or not he should fire at the man using the scepter purely for the sickening new headache he had been unceremoniously burdened with. Clasping his hands over his ears, a silently cast muffling charm offered a hint of relief, and the symbiote's ardent feeling of relaxation in the face of the spelled quiet suffused the mental landscape with some much-needed calm. Dull echoes of aching pain thudded through the shared body for several long, agonizing moments, throbbing like clusters of deep tissue bruises, and Loki wondered for a moment if incinerating the human who had caused both himself and his other half such discomfort was really so unneeded.

_Are you alright?_

_Don't like loud noisse. Noisse hurtss, hurtss badly. _

_Would you like me to sshoot him? _

_Hurt later, need ssilence. _

The mental conversation was put to a stop when the seemingly annoying presence in hot rod red and burnt gold let out a faint whirring noise, before a veritable portable arsenal of weapons fit for a king's army materialized from the deceptively too small-seeming confines of metal. The man looked up at the Quinjet for a second, projecting an aura of rather discomfiting smugness. "Did you _miss _me, Agent Romanov?," he called teasingly.

The symbiote regarded the intimidating-looking weaponry cache with what Loki knew within a millisecond was, of all things, annoyance. _Sstupid noissess musst sstop! _

A low whirring noise was all the warning given before the world went white and pain seared through every cell he shared. When he managed to open his eyes, there's an open, glowing palm held out before him, lit up and apparently recharging for another blast.

"Make a move, Reindeer Games, I dare you." The words, though mocking, held a razor's edge.

_What do you think we sshould do? _The symbiote's voice held a venomous edge, testament to the unpleasant feelings newly harbored to the man who seemed to be protected by a giant spray-painted collection of weapon-laden scrap metal. A fight, it seemed, would not go amiss.

But this is exactly what is needed: a chance to get _inside _the organization of humans wanting to fight against the Chitauri. Even as a prisoner, people were likely to talk and, eventually, slip up information concerning the current agenda for the ongoing battle.

_We wait. Let them take uss in, we can gain more information on their organization from the insside. Perhapss we can find someone conssidered expendable for eating. Both the man with the metal sshield and the one who makess the horrible excusse for mussic are to accompany uss, for ssecurity'ss ssake, it sseemss..._

_...If he makess more ugly ssoundss, the noisse-making partss are going to be crusshed._ The words flicker with tints of scarlet aggression and brewing power, a scalding promise.

But the symbiote has, nonetheless, agreed, and so he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. The symbiote rippled and twisted for a moment, readjusting Itself to flatten back into the appearance of a harmless-looking black catsuit once more, and Loki cannot help the flicker of satisfaction that bubbled up when the change in body coverings elicited a half dozen choice swear words from both men before him.

"Smart move, now get up." Handcuffs were then supplied by way of a quick downward toss by Romanov, and with a snap and a flick of the wrist by Rogers, his hands gained new bindings. The symbiote's mental grumbling at the new sense of confinement was a rather amusing distraction as the Quinjet was lowered and Loki found himself shoved haphazardly into the closest available seat, strapped in tightly enough to restrict breathing.

_Phasse two, complete. Onward we march, towardss death or worsse, we know not where. _


	4. This Tainted Dream

**A/N: To those who are reading my other stories and possibly feeling impatient about the next updates, I'm sorry. These past two months have been rather eventful for me (arranging a new class schedule, playing host to guests, home remodeling, etc.)****, and writing for this story happens to be my current way of coping with it. When it's finished, the other works _will_ be resumed, I assure you, but until then, please, for the love of bees, I ask you to be patient. I don't want to turn out any chapters that don't hold your interest due to caving in to pressure.**

**DISCLAIMER: As usual, I own nothing of potential financial interest to _Marvel_ or ancient Norse mythology, be it the phrases/paraphrases, characters, etc. used here.**

**WARNING: Some semi-graphic violence, foul language, gore and dark humor, and the Norse god of thunder, lightning, and fertility being about as understanding of his adopted sibling's situation and viewpoint as an impact with solid concrete after falling from the top floor of Stark Tower if there was no Iron Man suit for protection. **

**NOTE: To clarify a question as to _how_, exactly, the symbiote and Loki are connected: they hold a deep-seated connection on a cellular level, allowing for the constant change in appearance, the extreme adaptations to allow the symbiote to both be housed in Loki's body and to heal and adapt said body for a quasi-"evolution" in overall strength, speed, ****defensive/offensive capabilities, etc. This type of symbiosis is, to me, a combination of both endosymbiosis (the symbiote lives within the tissues of the other in the relationship, such as in cells) and ****ectosymbiosis (the symbiote lives on the body surfaces of the other). ****They also hold a profound bond on an emotional and mental level, allowing for the shared mindset, speech pattern, and overall interdependence, possessiveness, and protectiveness. Lying, hiding, pretending are all impossible to do to the other; there's simply too much shared, and thus the fear of abandonment, misunderstanding, or distrust is, rather validly, nonexistent.**

_**That**_** is the relationship between them: pure, unadulterated understanding and connection, on every level you can name, be it cellular, psychological, mental, physical, or otherwise. They are two pieces of the same puzzle, two halves of a whole that combine and are one. Loki is the symbiote and the symbiote is Loki, and they are also their own individual person as well. That is why Loki can differentiate between himself and the symbiote, but uses the "we" term when addressing others.  
**

* * *

It had been some time since the Captain and the Man in the Iron suit (_Antony Sstark_, he was named, according to the memories Barton had of the man's file before this entire escapade even had begun) had congratulated each other on the ostensibly successful defeat and capture and taken their desired places on the Quinjet, and the two had since taken up staring at him as if studying a specimen under glass. The look would be almost sickening, if it weren't also so darkly amusing; if they peered any closer, the symbiote's dangerously simmering distrust would have a perfectly valid reason to explode, and then everyone else on what he already inwardly regarded as a flying death trap would _die. _

_If the man with the sshield leanss forwardss jusst a little bit-!_

_Now, now, all in good time. There will be plenty of people at their basse to eat, but if we eat thesse people **now**, there will be no one to fly the sship, and neither of uss know how to fly thiss particular piece of metal. We can wait a little longer, hmm? It'ss besst not to crassh into the city below uss, or posssibly the ocean by thiss continent. _

_...Jusst one bite? He hass sso much deliciouss meat on him..._

_Yess, but he will sscream, and that will **hurt** uss, remember? I thought you wanted ssilence after the metal-loving man over there played the terrible death to mussical culture._

_Sstill hungry, though._ The words were accompanied by what felt unmistakably like the mental equivalent of a rather impressive display of sulking. The concept of his other half engaging in a childish fit of pouting was quite amusing, he decided.

The air in the Quinjet felt clammy, pressing fingers of cold into the skin of those strapped in. Loki, who knew all too well that the cold would be of no bother to him, pointedly ignored the feeling and wondered vaguely how the retrieval of the iridium had progressed since the events at the gala.

_Perhapss he hass taken it back to basse already for preparationss._

The thought was somewhat mollifying, given the current circumstances. The handcuffs on his wrists were beginning to chafe, and he wasn't quite sure that vanishing them with his magic or letting the symbiote eat them for a quick morsel of food would be greeted with anything close to a favourable reaction. Stark, given the information gleaned from his personnel file, would likely see it as an act of pre-meditated offense and use it as an excuse for the operation of at least a few of the smaller of the dozens upon dozens of war machines hidden under the gaudy red and gold surface metal. Rogers may protest a bit out of principle, as his body language spoke of a strong moral code and an equally strong soldier's mindset, but the lady Romanov might deliberately overlook it, so long as it wasn't lethal.

There was a lot of pain that a person could inflict without killing the subject. Time and experience had long ago proven that.

A low crackling sound burbled out of the speakers on the redhead's headset, the same voice as the one-eyed man who he had fired at while in the desert. _Evidently her employer, then. The man Fury keepss a lot of tabss, it sseemss._

"Has he said anything yet, anything at all?"

"Not so much as a word, or even an exclamation. Maybe Stark intimidated him enough to shut him up with all those weapons in his suit."

"Well, just get him here. We're running low on time, and on fuel if this drags out much longer."

The sound abruptly cut off, as curtly as if the man in question had turned and walked away, and the air filled with an oppressive silence for a moment; on the other side of the Quinjet, Rogers and Stark continue to stare, muffled whispers traded every so often. Loki wondered if they even realized he could hear them.

"I don't like it, not one bit. This doesn't make any sense."

"What? Rock of Ages giving up so easily once I brought out some of the big guns?"

"Look, you weren't there very long, so you wouldn't get it, but I don't remember it being that easy a gig to pull off. This guy packs a heck of a wallop, he threw my shield clear across the park and gave me a hello in the form of a new bruise collection."

There was a derisive snort from the shorter male. "Look, I don't know if you realize it, but you're still pretty spry...for an older fellow, anyways. Point is, I _think_ you'll live. What's your thing for it? Pilates? Morning jog around the Pentagon? Competitive swim session with sharks?"

A brief look of confused surprise flickered across the deceptively youthful-looking visage. "...What? I don't-"

"Don't sweat it, it's all like calisthenics anyway. You might've missed a few things...or actually, maybe a lot of things, y'know, doing time as a Capsicle à la 'Murica."

The surprised expression morphed into disbelief, then a split second of righteous anger, and then finally settled into reluctant acceptance, a grin tugging at that smile-riddled mouth as a match was met in egocentricity.

"Fury didn't tell me that he was calling you in for backup."

The dark chocolate-coloured eyebrow raised in response appeared so natural it seemed to have been made for the pure purpose of aiding in the art of expressions of condescending acceptance. "Yeah, well, that's kind of to be expected. There's a lot of things that Fury doesn't tell you, he's always struck me as the kind of guy to have secrets soaked in secrets that are _boxed _in secrets, y'know?"

A shrug was given in response, the sort that showcased sheepishness and quiet, dismayed understanding. "Well, I guess it's a good thing you're here then, after all, huh?"

On the other side, Loki could only inwardly sigh at such a mawkish display. They had a prisoner _right in front of_ _them_ that was clearly listening and watching, and yet the open display of attachment was given out as freely as tavern mead after a prosperous hunt. Did they even _remember _that one of the first rules of war was never to display any potential weakness to your enemy?

_Too many ssacchirine emotionss for me, thank you. Pleasse divert your excesss dossage of ssentimentality to the next flight, and leave me to my planning in peace._

* * *

The reprieve from observing the humans came in the form of a deafening blast of thunder and lightning from outside; from the close sound of the auditory blast, a few bolts had nearly hit the Quinjet, thus causing the sudden round of violent shaking. Loki stared out of one of the aircraft's windows, noting a half-dozen surges of blinding white electrical threads the size of tree trunks, and shuddered, turning away to cast another silent muffling charm to cushion his much-abused shared eardrums from the sound. The symbiote quivered in place, mental waves of sickly grey-blue and coal-black crashing thoughts back and forth into an ugly, muddled ocean of tumultuous pain. The sensation caused a well of memory to awaken within, the still reverberating sound of thunder as familiar as his magic: he knew, as instinctively as taking in air after breaching the water's surface, what had caused that burst of celestial noise.

_Thor._

So, his not-brother had come down to Midgard to save the day and protect his human friends?

_Well, at the very leasst the Allfather iss not sso **entirely** fargone in wissdom that he ignored the enourmouss incoming invassion of inssectoid filth** entirely**. Nornss know that leaving another realm to fend for itsself and try and put up itss own defencess iss **completely** out of the quesstion, it'ss a **fantasstic** idea to ssend your battle-crazed firsstborn down to a world he only sspent three dayss on and expect him to insstantly connect with the local populace like old friendss of many centuriess, never mind the centuriess of playing follow the leader even when it getss people hurt, or killed, or worsse!_

A low groaning sound, much akin to that of an animal in intense pain, came flickering up from the back of their shared mind, cutting off the beginnings of what was, admittedly, a rather ugly rant; it appeared that the blast of outside sound was too painful to experience, and the symbiote had thus taken to hiding as much as possible until it was quiet again. A wave of empathy for his companion over their shared plight left him wondering how to crush the noise into so much molecular disarray and then blast it apart, to scatter it so far and wide that it would never reform and plague the eardrums of the living ever again.

_Hurtss, hurtss..._

_I know_, he soothed quietly, _jusst hold on for a sshort while longer. _A bit of magic was pulled forth to wrap the symbiote in a cocoon of mental waves of quiet, prompting a soft, rumbling _mrrrrr _of acceptance. He closed his eyes and willed the newly reawakened headache (now a proper migraine, he thought darkly) to vanish.

The thunder boomed again, roaring like a lion, and instinctively he flinched, catsuit rippling like a pond disturbed by a downpour of rainwater as the lights stuttered, flickering on and off for several seconds within the interior. Darkness, he remembered, did not foretell of safety, but of pain, of death, of destruction. The symbiote was the one and only exception: the darkness It had wrapped him in when It had healed him was _safe. _

Rogers, he noted with some irritation, was giving him a slightly muddled look, intermixing very, very slight concern (the fact that it was even there at all felt somewhat unnerving, but it was to be a given, he supposed, the man's morality shone through like an obnoxious beacon of light) with a properly methodical air, tinged with a touch of biting sarcasm (_that_ was acceptable, he could handle such forms of scrutiny, the man was only working according to his standard protocols). "What's the matter? You scared of a little bit of lightning?"

_Careful how you sspeak, the lightning you mock sso hass cleaved men in two, burned down foresstss, sshattered sskulls and burnt the enemy from the insside out like sso much overcooked meat, and, losst in the grip of itss blisstering power, __their blood boilss until their eyes bursst from the presssure that mountss within. Thiss force of nature could sshear you off the face of thiss world like a handful of dusst, I have sseen it sso before, and it iss not pleassant to watch._

But to state such unsavoury truths would only leave the humans with one less being to consider an ally, and given their current strategies, they might need more help than they already possess. So, quelling the urge to spit out the truth and watch the fear form on their frail young faces, he offered a rueful smile and chose a different set of words: still a truth, but not quite so bitter. He had grown more used to this one, having kept it upon his lips for what seemed too many years.

"We're not overly fond of what followss."

Up in the cockpit, Romanov was in the process of sending a message to S.H.I.E.L.D. about the current storm-plagued situation, all the while muttering questions as to the sudden strange phenomenon as she began the rather difficult process of steering the Quinjet out of the downpour. The sound was almost comforting, given that Stark had taken to playing _more _obnoxious music in the face of the storm, and Rogers was trying (a rather valiant, but futile effort, he noted) to get him to either silence it or turn it off.

A few moments of eye-watering light from the storm outside, and then the light from the windows of the Quinjet gained a promotion from eye-watering to the type of blinding normally reserved to those unlucky enough to be caught in the blast radius of a nearby nuclear explosion. The walls vibrated from the close proximity to the tumultuous force, and in an unexpected blessing, he noted that Stark's noisy music-dispensing equipment had shorted out.

_Well, at leasst that'ss one lesss thing to worry about._

The air inside was heating up, charged with energy from the debauchery of voltage outside, and every human on board had gained a new sheen of sweat. The symbiote was retreating inwards now, curling and uncurling in a fit of noise-induced anxiety around his ribcage, tendrils looping around the curve of each rib like braids of flickering galaxies in an effort at attempted stabilization. A segment of the shaking organism reached through the gap between each rib, widening and stretching Itself carefully to create a seamless transition between bone and intercostal muscles, forming an unbroken cocoon out of the area. After a few moments, a loud, throbbing noise became audible, pounding in his ears like the sound of drums, and with it, the realization that the symbiote was trying to block out the roar of thunder and lightning by amplifying the internal noise of their shared heartbeat.

Judging by the slow but definite relaxation of pressure on the rest of his insides, the somewhat unorthodox effort was working. _Ssmart move. At leasst thiss may delay the sshock in the next few momentss._

Another crashing echo of lightning clanged through the air like the blaring cry of a klaxon horn, and then the human occupants could only gape in abject shock as the back was all but entirely torn open by a pair of muscular hands. With the ramp forcibly opened up, a tall, imposing figure strode purposefully across the floor of the Quinjet, uncaring as to the water being dripped all over the surface, and reached out a tanned paw, the heat radiating from the skin a sharp contrast to the freezing deluge outside.

There was barely enough time to register the unsanctioned presence with a token look of shock before that huge hand made contact with his throat and _squeezed_; the symbiote reacted immediately, a cirrus of coal-black rearing up from the section of the catsuit covering the chest, the end of the makeshift appendage sprouting dozens of viciously sharp needles, and swung at the offending hand as if to break it into a mass of broken bones and meat on the spot. Mjolnir (still as ridiculously held as ever, he managed to note, an instrument of power held like a child's toy about to be thrown at someone's head at the slightest provocation) swung back in response, lightning crackling across the grey surface of the head, and the symbiote twisted around in place and let out a mental hiss, eyeing the offending piece of mythical metal warily. Even after being in the presence of the weaponized juggernaut for only a few seconds, It knew more than enough to understand that the super-heating weapon in the middle of the Quinjet posed a deadly threat if underestimated.

Dimly, in the background, Loki registered the sound coming from both of the humans on the other side of the Quinjet as shouting, though whether it was to object or encourage was rather difficult to discern, given that the pressure on his throat, while now gone, had temporarily cut off a much-needed oxygen supply and left in its wake a sensation of unpleasant, attention-demanding vertigo.

_Sstill ever the brute, I ssee. _The brief urge to rub the damaged skin and check for bruises was considered, then discarded. He had dealt with pain before, it would not do harm to ignore such a trivial injury for now.

But then the hand came back, this time covered in a rather impressive multitude of needle-thin bloody scratches and gouges across the knuckles, and he braced himself for another round of wooziness while the blonde fool remembered that he needed to _breathe. _The idiot wouldn't listen even at the best of scenarios, and if he fought back now of all times, the man might not even hesitate to strike him, either by Mjolnir or by his own gargantuan hands, and trying to direct an invasion while unconscious was _not _feasible.

This time the feeling of a spinning head could be anticipated, but was nonetheless unpleasant, as fingers pressed down into tormented flesh and gave a sharp yank, heedless of the needling segments of semi-fluid jabbing into slightly tanned flesh in an effort for immediate release. Within a split second, they're out of the aircraft and into the open air, now in the grasp of nighttime, and a faint sensation of panic built up as he realized that the Quinjet had gotten far enough on its journey that there was now an entirely different landscape underneath them: a large, imposing mountainside clad in deep green forestry and a plethora of rocks in varying shades of greys and whites.

Given their current speed, there can only be one, rather painful to consider, outcome to this impromptu flight.

_Damn._

The panic surged up again, raw and wild and desperate now, as Thor's grip abruptly vanished, replaced by the chilled, shredding sensation of the shrieking wind. Having nothing to cling to in order to impede or break the sudden launch through the air like an oversized discus, Loki could only muster a brief moment of concentration to force down the memories of falling before he braced himself for impact with the enourmous mass of solid, unforgiving rock. The symbiote's rage at the abrupt, careless toss of their shared person was shoved aside for worry and an instinctive act of bodily preservation: only a second after they're lobbed toward the mountain, and the suit covering was already warping, remodeling, adapting to cushion the fall, shield vital organs, and absorb the shock of impact. The god shut his eyes, offered what magic he could to add strength to the anatomical reinforcements, and held his breath to keep out any dirt or slag from the impending crash as the symbiote stretched over every inch of their vessel to upgrade from catsuit to full-body morphsuit.

There was a tremendous amount of sound generated when he finally did crash, and the pain it brings to his already-battered body left a distinctly sickly taste in his mouth. Loki wondered vaguely if the flavour originated from the presence of blood, from bile, or, quite possibly, both.

But getting up proved to be easier than anticipated once a mouthful of pink-tinged saliva had been spat out to soak into mountain dirt, and when a rapid damage check yielded no broken bones, large patches of torn away skin, or overly mangled organs, a bit of calm set in, as well as a wave of well-deserved gratitude for the symbiote's nimble reaction to their launch. By the time Thor landed in a whirl of scarlet and silver a few moments later, an escape route had been scouted out, and a spell cast to check if the humans in the Quinjet were close enough to follow.

_Hmm, it appearss we have an incoming human._

_The noissy one?_

_Yess, him. The one with the sshield iss ssome wayss away yet, but he will be here ssoon enough. _

The sight of Mjolnir pointed at him was not something worth being fazed about. The blue eyes that stared so bluntly at him, no affection or warmth clearly seen, however, was indeed a reason to wonder at. Perhaps the Allfather had told him more than was expected of the situation?

_An expresssion of cold ferocity doess not ssuit your vissage, Thor. What hass been sspun into wordss for ssuch a rough reunion? _

"Where is the Tesseract, Loki?"

_Aah, that explainss sso much. The Allfather doessn't care for the humanss on thiss rock, he wantss to enssure the ssafety of the Cossmic Cube. Nornss forbid there be any** other** reasson. What of your mortalss, hmm, what of your ssurveyor of the sstars, or her ever-prattling friend, or that sscientisst? You do not assk of them? You do not even assk of **me**? I wass dead, dead in your eyess, gone from your grip, losst in the Void, and yet there iss **no** other reaction?_

Before he could stop it, a laugh clawed its way free from his throat, the sound wild, sharp as broken glass, with a sable-tinged hint of bubbling hysteria and a creeping, burning pain from a place he cannot think to name. "Well, we misssed you _too_, if there'ss a care in you to take it."

The reaction was explosive: Thor's face darkened, his expression as stormy as his famed weather-changing capabilities. Overhead, the dark sky clamored with sound as clouds rolled back and forth, generating a slew of potential storms. "Do I _look _to be in a gaming mood with you!? You have gone and terrorized this realm for your own sick amusement!"

_The desstruction of one, and **only** one **ssecret** ressearch facility, a few converted agentss and their dead comradess even_ **_lessser _**_in number than that_,_ the procuring of one eyeball that would not even warrant a trip to a healer, and a loud, clearly overinflated sspeech in the local park, and ssomehow thiss equatess to generating the fear of an entire world? The Allfather'ss taless of conquesst told to uss in our youth held far more bloodsshed than **that**. _

"Oh, iss that _true_? You know, given that it'ss been sso difficult to pull off, you really ought to thank uss. With the BiFrosst sshattered and gone, how much dark energy did the Allfather have to musster to even conjure you here? Thiss little trip to your preciouss little world?"

The words feel heavy, bitter as a mouthful of milk thistle on his tongue as they spread out into the open air, every syllable ringing like a death toll. His hands, clenched to his sides in forced restraint, ache with phantom pain, and it takes a moment or so to resist the urge to curl slim fingers in the ghostly act of past motion, trying to clasp onto a hand that now looks far more likely to strike him down than pull him to safety.

Mjolnir dropped to the ground, the sound echoing across chasms of rock as it slammed into the dirt with a hard, blunt _thud _that shook the mountain into quaking like an unstable pile of leaves. Hands reached out, tan and lined and rough with the scars of a hundred thousand fierce battles, and the touch of warmth felt so strange, so unfamiliar after so long an absence that it _burned. _Loki struggled to resist the instinctive urge to pull away, memories of time before warring with the present, the heated skin feeling as if it would scorch him away entirely.

Too long had he been left to burn and waste away in the Void, too long had it been since those hands had been trustworthy. Even now, they had nearly choked him earlier, the fool using too much strength and not enough restraint. The only touch he could properly stand now was that of the grasp of the symbiote, the enigma of It which had pulled him free from pain and cold, that had healed him, that had kept him, that had _wanted _him. The shadows woven around his bones meant an entire universe of things too precious to limit to words.

"I thought you were gone, I thought you were _dead_." There's grief in the words, pure and sharp as a high note in an out of tune instrument, and it's almost worth the discomfort caused by the reunion embrace. Questions burned on the tip of his tongue, harsh and sour as lemon juice in an open wound; he doesn't want to speak them, to give voice to the ghosts that had tormented him in _their _hold.

But he still needs, with a sickening amount of desperation, to _know. _

The first question was forced out, tearing upwards and out of fearful vocal cords. Twisting his words back to their old mannerisms was difficult, almost painful given the circumstances, but Thor had never been very strong in the art of understanding differences. If he tried to speak as he preferred to now, it would likely leave his not-brother wondering if he was suffering from some sort of ailment. "Did you...mourn me?"

"We all did, every last one. Our father..."

But Thor would not look him in the eye, and hope, frail and tiny as a newborn bird, withered away and died before it could first breathe air.

His not-brother had never been very good at the art of lying, not even when it was needed.

_Sso, that'ss it, then. No funeral pyre, no ssongss, not even the sstub of a candle lit, except perhapss in celebration of thiss body'ss untimely apparent demisse. Did you even **try **to find me, look for me in the dark, bring me back? Wass I to be given up sso eassily, casst away like a worn out cloak?_

The silence between them festered like an infected wound. The symbiote's disgust at the dark emotions rolling off the situation like cloying fumes felt heavy, a poison-maroon slow burning that rankled with Loki's own painful, mounting urge to scream in childish indignation. _Iss **thiss** what you call kindnesss, Thor? Thiss farce at comforting me that I wass not even worthy enough to be given the lasst ritess? Even the paltry dead of the impoverisshed earn ssuch thingss if they sslaughter even a dying enemy!__  
_

The answer he chose in response was harsh, admittedly, but the dark place in his heart that had grown in size with what he had just been told was a raging bonfire now, ignited and fanned into wickedly high flames by the eyes that would not meet his own, and so he pretended not to care.

"_Your_ father, not mine, _never _mine. He _did _tell you of my true parentage, did he not, in that all-knowing_ beneficence_ he holdss sso dearly in hand? Thiss damnable thing that sstandss here, thiss thing you are _cruel_ enough to claim a hint of relation to, even knowing sso?"

The taller god released his hold, the burning fire drifting away like the funeral pyre that had never even been constructed, and stared for a long, dark moment, as if he was looking at his adoptive sibling for the first time, and was not quite sure he liked what was glimpsed there. Hands extended in a blunt gesture of attempted conviction, the blue eyes almost frantic with the need to offer justifications, explanations, answers to shed light upon the widening chasm cast between them.

"It...It matters not, Loki. We were raised together, we played together, we fought together, always as family, always as brothers, side by side. Do you remember none of that, of those golden days united?"

_I remember being left behind and mocked becausse I wass not sstrong enough to play at being warriorss with you and your friendss. Why do you think I firsst began sseeking ssolace in the library, a place where I could learn without jabss at my ssmaller sstature, the inssultss that a king'ss sson could not posssibly be sso pathetic in comparisson to hiss older brother? You made a taunting ssport of my reading, and yet you never quesstioned where I learned of sso many of the sspells that kept you and your comradess alive on our quesstss!_

_I remember being jeered at in the training given in our youth becausse I had not the sstrength to throw a man from the ring without magic, and you called my sskillss nothing more than trickss when I had nothing elsse but my ever-ridiculed knivess to fight with and you had a force of nature sshackled to your every beck and call. _

_I remember Ssif'ss braying and ssnot-nossed crying when all I did wass turn her hair a different colour, sso that for once **I** wass not not the only one who looked different, and you all went mad about it like a pack of rabid wolvess sscenting a wounded buck! Your demandss for compenssation helped cosst me my wordss, Thor, and yet in the coming yearss you had the **gall** to wonder why I would not ssimply conjure up whatever you and your band of idiotss wanted on your journeyss, or why I refussed to come along like a good little hound to play fetch...!_

_Tell me, Thor, do you remember none of **that**?_

The air felt colder, more oppressive, digging in with minuscule claws of ice to try and wreak havoc on exposed flesh, but the lack of cold that he could feel hurt more. The symbiote coiled around It's host's spine like a snake guarding a clutch of eggs, cradling vertebrae and rubbing deep muscles in an internal massage, trying to alleviate some of the tension building up: every muscle Loki had felt like a coiled spring ready to snap, the bone-deep urge to scream unwanted, bitter, filthy truth in his not-brother's face churning like a sea of acid to rub the inside of his throat raw.

He forced himself to turn away. If he didn't, he knew there was no honest guarantee that Thor would come out of the situation with all of his limbs attached properly. The symbiote was incensed enough as it was.

"I remember...a sshadow," he forced out, bitter anger coating the words with a sickly shine of not-quite-silver, "I remember living...no, _exissting_...in the sshade of your greatnesss like ssome half-wilted plant denied proper ssunlight. I remember you, all but tosssing me into an abysss yoursself, you who left me to _die _at the bottom of the universse! _You _who let me fall into what wass _**worsse** _than death, and did _nothing _to mend it! I _wass _and _sshould _be king, by the right given by the Allmother _I_ held the throne, and then _you_ come gallivanting back with your little pet lapdogss, having learned and earned _nothing _becausse you _**losst nothing**! __You _had your weapon, _you _had help, _you _had friendss, alliess to clothe you, sshelter you, feed you, lissten to your neverending sstream of complaintss and bragging of adventuress you charged into like a taunted bilgessnipe. _You _took back what you were not worthy of, you took it like you take all thingss, and you _abandoned _me!"

The expression on Thor's face held both immense sadness, and confusion: honest, blunt, _pathetic _confusion, as pure and foolish as that of a child, and Loki knew in that moment that all hope of him understanding, if there even was any in the beginning, was to die here, in the mountains of a world fought over like a petty little trinket.

"So you take the world I love for your imagined slights, then? Do you think it a pretty bauble to add to your collection, is that it? No, the Earth is under my protection, Loki, and I will not step aside in that duty, not even to you. Stop, before you damage too much."

_Imagined sslightss? **Imagined sslightss? **Are my yearss of pain nothing more than petty complaintss to you, Thor? A childissh tantrum to be thrown for my broken boness and my heart and hopess crusshed underfoot like sso many grainss of ssand for how many yearss? If our roless were reverssed, you would not claim it sso, you would proclaim that you had been wronged sso grievoussly that nothing but your every wissh fulfilled would sstem the pain of the emotional woundss. How can you posssibly sstand there, and sspeak ssuch thingss to me, knowing our hisstory and yet holding your head high like you know better than I do of the vile rancor borne of humiliation?_

The urge to scream had long since moved past bone-deep, and by now had reached atom-level indignity. He choked back it back, forcibly remolding it into a laugh. The effort hurt like breathing with bruised lungs. "And you're doing a _marvelouss _job of that, aren't you? Protecting them, helping them, guiding them? The humanss sslaughter each other in drovess every day, fighting over the dwindling ressourcess of their dying world, while _you_ idly threaten from atop a lofty golden balcony with a mug of mead in one hand. I mean to rule them, unite them under a banner of glory. And, truly, why sshould I _not? _Many of the landss of thiss realm are sso unsstable that unition may heal their fracturess and offer a gift of peace and sstability."

The thunder god stared at him, eyes darkened from sky-blue to a stormy grey-cobalt that had foreshadowed since youth of mounting rage. "So, you think yourself above them, then?" The smile on his face was cold, grim as a corpse, full of reluctant thoughts.

"Well, yess." It wasn't a lie. He could, and would, admit that much. But how was the man before him to know just _what _he meant by those two words? How was he to understand the abject grudging admiration held by that which lived above, that spark of reluctant respect concerning the never-ending toil of life performed by those that scampered and scuttled and scurried below? How could he comprehend the fascination held for a life that had to struggle for every morsel of food, every sip of drink, every scrap of warmth and affection, or a roof without holes overhead?

He had been given such luxuries since birth, having accepted them long ago as too commonplace to bear sparing thought for. Even here, on this world he so loudly proclaimed to have under his protection, Thor had been sheltered from the worst of humanity's offerings, having been taken in, given garments to wear, fresh food to eat, friends to talk with, and a way to defend himself never truly far away. He had not had to worry about how to procure his next meal, or a place to sleep in warmth and safety, or someone to help him when he inevitably did something foolish that left everyone in the blast radius scrambling for cover from the fallout. Three days of relative wealth, and he thought he understood the common man of this world?

The very idea was so pathetic it was almost laughable.

_You want to play the hero, the beacon of good thwarting the dark little sshade here, don't you? Truly, you have no idea how much you have been protected. You're a boy playing at being a king, and unlike me, you can't hope to fail, it issn't in you to think of anything elsse, much lesss a backup plan._

Thor stared back at him, eyes full of what was unmistakably both pity and a faint sense of the sort of righteousness borne from the belief of justification. "Then, regrettably, you miss the truth of ruling, brother. A throne would suit you quite ill, if all you can think of is how high it puts you upwards from those who must call you king."

At this, something in him snapped, weighted down by too many insults compiled over the years, and he shoved at Thor, shunting him to the side as the smouldering coals of rage were rekindled. Walking to the ledge, he prayed inwardly that the thunder god did not come closer; he was liable to lash out as it was, and Thor's stoking of old flames of dark emotion had left him suddenly too closely confined in his shared body, wound deeply as a Valkyrie's favoured intricate braids. The symbiote was a rumbling mass of knife-sharp animosity, wrapped so securely around his insides that if Loki did not cling to the clarity and fierce support the embrace's aching sensation gave him, he might have collapsed. But It knew him, and gripped him all the more tightly; there would be no benefit to fly apart at the seams, not here, not now in this moment when the world hinged on two men locked on opposite paths.

It's too late, far too late for everything, truthfully, to change things. He wasn't sure he would ever know if this is, was, or ever _will_ be repairable, or, if so, to what degree. The battlefield had been set before Thor came to Midgard, and the game needed to be adjusted for his presence.

_A lie, then? A half-lie? _Plain, unaltered truth would not be accepted from this mouth, not even from the one before him. But something had to be said, so he took the words threatening to leap out and burn Thor to nothing but ash, and traded incantations for a reformed lie.

"I've sseen worldss you've never even _known _about, not even an inkling of! I have changed, I have _grown_, Odinsson, in _my_ exile! I have sseen the true power of the Tessseract, bright and gloriouss, and when I wield it..."

The expression on Thor's face grew wary, suspicious. _Good, about time he finally began wondering where all of thiss comess sspouting from._

"Loki...who showed you this power? Who controls the would-be-king of this realm?"

_A lunatic who dessiress the decaying hand of Death in unholy union, you overbearing ignoramuss. _Unfortunately, he doubted that his not-brother would have knowledge of the Mad Titan, or his associates. Such a thing would likely be too much for the battle-prone firstborn prince to take in, given that it did not involve immediate gratification as an attachment.

A slight mental nudge from the symbiote alerted him to the fact that Thor was still awaiting an answer. The words that rose up in reply felt instinctive, fueled by old pains, but time had worn them down until they were only half-lie: bruising, but not breaking, though giving them audible form carved an ache into his throat. "I _am_ a king! There iss no _potential_, Thor, no falsse promisse of a throne that wass alwayss meant for another."

But the blue eyes remain closed to understanding, and he was loathe to see it. _Here I sstand before you, proclaiming more truthss on foreign ssoil in mere hourss than I did in a hundred yearss of our ssuppossed home, and yet you **sstill **can ssee nothing. How far, indeed, have I fallen, to bear witnesss to thiss mockery of my persson by the one who callss himsself my kin? __  
_

"No, _not_ here. This is insanity that speaks before me, not you! You give up the Tesseract, you give up this poisonous dream, lay down your hatefully-acquired arms! You come _home_, back to us, Loki. Please."

The irony of the situation was not lost on him: too many times to feasibly count, he had tried to convince Thor not to go and do something he had thought to be irreparable, too mad to consider a proper plan of action. It was almost sickening, the feeling of cold satisfaction that oozed from the old wounds of his oft-ignored spirit like the biological cleansing attempt done to destroy invading cells.

But said irony provided him with a rather cruelly made reward, and thus had to be repaid. Pulling the words free, he spoke up, eager to rid himself of the bitter aftertaste of something that isn't quite even a half-lie. "I don't even _have_ it-"

_At leasst, not on thiss persson. Mad? Yess. Foolissh? Not quite. _

Thunder rumbled ominously overhead; he was running out of time to speak. "_You _need the Cube to bring me back, but I've ssent it off. I know not where it iss now, it'ss gone, gone, _gone_." A laugh tore its way out of his throat, half of it bitter triumph, half of it the sickly sweet breakage of what he refused on principle to call a heart.

When he offered no further answer, something in Thor's expression snapped, patience finally worn thin, and he lunged forward, Mjolnir back in one hand and ready to swing forward to inflict what promised to be a breathtakingly _brutal _amount of pain. The symbiote warped, tens of thousands of needles rippling into place outside as the tendrils inside of their combined flesh wrapped around organs, bones, and tissues to form an internal aegis of protection. Claw tips lengthened into lean curves, sharpening for slicing and gouging. Senses heightened, every crackle of lightning above and every shift in movement suddenly eerily perceptible.

_Fight?_

_It sseemss we have no other choice in the matter. He'ss too sstubborn to lissten to me, and I doubt he will lissten to you either._

_Will he lissten if we try to eat the hammer?_

_No, I think that would only make him angrier. _

A bone-shattering hex flared up into sanguine shards in one hand, one of the last he could conjure before the low magical reserves could no longer be safely ignored, and he braced himself. _Thiss iss to be a proper battle, then, hmm? Sso be it. __  
_

"Enough of this! You listen well, brother, for I-"

_How can I lissten while you sswing Mjolnir around your head, you sseem far too likely to lassh out with it!_

But, almost miraculously, the beginnings of what would have been a long, futile lecture were abruptly cut off: Stark, it seemed, had finally managed to arrive, and had made a rather impressive introduction of himself by tackling the thunder god in mid-flight, knocking him off the mountain into the sea of trees below.

Peering over the edge, Loki allowed the hex to dissipate, pulling the energy back into his body for later use. "Well, Thor, I'm_ lisstening_."

A scrying spell was cast for a better view, and, judging by the sight of tree trunks snapping into pieces down the mountainside, he could only assume he would not get a proper reply for some time. _Aah, well. We tried._


	5. An Unstable Desire

**A/N: NOTE #1: When the story is told from Loki's perspective, all humans are referred to by their surnames and/or physical descriptions. In the moments _not _told directly from Loki's perspective, they will be referred to by their first or full names, physical descriptions, and/or rankings.**

**NOTE #2: The surveillance room's portion of conversation concerning Iridium and its potentially terrifying capabilities in the thermonuclear astrophysics field, and ****Tony, Steve, and Bruce's conversation in the Helicarrier Lab (or rather, Bruce's lab, given that he and Tony seem to be only ones who actually use it), as well as Steve's leaving the room to walk off and discover a casement of Hydra weaponry, and ****the scene with Dr. Selvig and the other "liberated" S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in the van with the Iridium being accepted into the CMS device, all ****occurred just as they did in the film, save for a touch more unease regarding "Mr. I've-got-a-bag-of-cats-for-brains".**

**NOTE #3: Yes, the man playing _Galaga_ still gets to play _Galaga_. I found that too strangely amusing in the film to change it XD**

**Also, I will be on a trip up north with family for the next few weeks, so part 6 will likely be put up some time in August.**

**DISCLAIMER: As usual, I own nothing potentially financially valuable to either the universes of _Marvel _or in Norse mythology, be it characters, gods, supposedly mythical creatures, phrases/paraphrases, etc. **

**WARNING: Some semi-graphic violence, foul language, gore and dark humor, and the rather unpleasant threat of bones, tissues, and organs collapsing and liquefying upon a short, terrifying drop from the air, to thousands of feet down into the freezing cold ocean. **

* * *

Within only a short time after Stark had arrived and given Thor a rather amusing tackle off the mountainside, it became glaringly obvious that, in the distance, the tiny red, white, and blue dot was an incoming Rogers dropping in via patriotic parachute. Loki wondered if the man even realized that, judging by the size of the expanse of material, said parachute would likely get ensnared in the topmost branches of more than a few of what seemed to be an endless supply of trees, and he would end up in a tangled jumble.

_Iss the sshield with him?_

_Yess, but could you try and eat it later insstead? Thiss fight will require it of him, if he'ss to aid Sstark. _

_Will it help uss?_

_Yess._

_...Fine. Later, though, promisse?_

_Promisse. _

Humans still held a rather regressive drawback concerning how fragile their bodies were, and as getting struck by Thor's hammer or his lightning had taken down everything from dragons to bilgesnipes to Loki himself, given the supercharged potential for damage, it would likely be safer if the Captain had at least _some _form of defense. The Super serum might give him increased strength and healing (if the personnel file was to be believed), but electrocution was still a rather glaring obstacle to staying alive.

The fight itself, or what was visible of it from his scrying spell, ended rather too soon for his liking (although watching Thor inadvertently replenishing Stark's metal suit with power was rather amusing, not to mention the blast to the face and the headbutt that followed soon after), and as testament to the rather impressive display to testosterone-fueled combat, there were now several new holes in the mountainside, the ground was torn up as if a meteor had crashed, and the forest had now lost roughly a mile due to his not-brother bringing Mjolnir down upon Roger's shield and causing both lightning and vibranium to react and form a rather extensive shock wave crackling with light and sound, rather like the detonation of a small bomb.

Knowing now from experience that the incoming noise and heat from the blast could hurt to a truly appalling degree, he'd seized the opportunity provided by being fought over to take cover further up, scrape together what dregs remained of his scant magical reserves for a silencing spell, and ask a rather important question that had occurred to him after the unsavoury introduction to heavy metal in Stuttgart.

_You and I sshare the ssame body, every lasst molecule of it, yess? _

_Yess. But why quesstion thiss?_

_In the yearss before I met you, when I lived...elssewhere, there wass a place in my dwelling where I learned much, and among thosse thingss I found a collection of bookss full of information on medicine and anatomy, gleaned from the corpssess of the enemiess that fell to the kingdom'ss power. Ssince the revelation of my...heritage, I am unssure if thiss would work, but if it doess, we would have a way to sstop having to endure the pain of the ceasselesss caterwauling of thiss realm._

_...No more hurting? No more pain from sstupid noissess?_

_If it workss, then we can lissten any way we pleasse._

_What do we have to do?_

_I cannot do thiss on my own, my magic resservess are too low to do much more than a few more ssilencing sspellss for later, but you, however, can do exactly what we need._

_What iss it?_

The sound of heavy feet approached in the distance; when the footfalls became audible as the rapid, unified pace of a group rather than individual opponents, the symbiote's input of neon-yellow wariness led them both to decide that it was best to cut the conversation short for now. _I'll explain once we're aboard their primary aircraft, it will give uss a chance to tesst it. For now, perhapss it'ss besst for uss to be ssilent, Thor already iss angered enough to lassh out at the nearesst available target._

When the humans and his not-brother finally arrived at the scene, Loki felt a distinct level of pride in the knowledge that the mere act of reclining against the nearest chunk of rock and smirking left such blatantly uneasy expressions.

_An unlikely unisson againsst the common enemy, hmm? _

* * *

The Helicarrier was smaller on the inside than he had expected, given its rather intimidating external size. Every agent that scurried to and fro appeared to share the same facial expression of exhausted apprehension, sporting tightly shut mouths and dark-ringed eyes, occasionally bumping into either one of their comrades, or one of the walls that squeezed the narrow hallways together. Lighting was a not quite blinding neon white, burning away in glass bulbs and round sunken caverns in the ceiling overhead. The stench of sweat, metal, and old coffee burned through the air.

Having been rightfully deemed too dangerous to be left with such an obvious combative aid, he had been stripped of the scepter before entry to the aircraft; the weapon had been taken with shaking hands by a wide-eyed lab worker who had managed, rather admirably, to maintain a level of dignity until the symbiote relinquished It's hold, pouring Itself off the glowing rod to reach out and re-assimilate with It's host's body covering in what appeared rather frighteningly to be a sped up act of the process of dissolving into a black pool of tar, then surging forwards and melting seamlessly against the body in front of It. At that point, the human lost all manner of composure, turning the colour of chalk, then milk as he shakily backed away and went to turn in the lethal weapon to his superiors.

The smile such an act of fright evoked had earned him several worried expressions from those around him, but that was of no consequence.

New handcuffs had been procured and applied, and, to his irritation, they chafed even more than the last pair, rubbing the skin of his wrists until he felt certain that if the metal was pulled away, a good portion of skin would be torn off with it, leaving nothing but raw flesh behind. The symbiote had offered to wedge a few tendrils of Itself under the connected rings and flatten out as a cushioning barrier, but he had mentally declined, knowing that if his other half made a movement of _any_ kind at this time, the dozens of S.H.I.E.L.D. enforcers that surrounded them as an emergency escort would view it as an attack. Rogers would have undoubtedly debriefed his superiors of the more destructive capabilities he had been gifted with by his bond with the symbiote, and if those in charge had so much as an ounce of working brain matter between them, they would not take such information on the enemy lightly.

He didn't want to put It in danger on his behalf for something as benign as an act of kindness.

So he ignored the urge to claw or vanish the offending bindings off, and walked with his head high. The manacles, albeit with difficulty, could be ignored; he had gotten aboard as he had wanted, and no amount of shackles and fetters would deter him proceeding with the game.

After a moment of concentration, the chattering of the humans around him faded away, replaced by the quiet, mercifully familiar sloshing and rippling of the symbiote's movements within, the habitual infusion of Itself to damaged tissue to mend and adjust now both an emotional anodyne and a welcome action after the earlier impact with the mountain. Despite the lack of extreme physical damage that had been prevented, the symbiote's repair of their shared vessel of even trivial injuries left a warm, soothing sensation of mutual peace and importance, something he was all too grateful for.

Aboard the Helicarrier, such a luxury would, quite doubtlessly, be the only balm he would receive for pain. Interrogation, he knew, would not be without its darkness. He was not a native of this world, nor part of their own kind, and the damage, collateral and otherwise, that had been caused since his arrival had left a sharp, blistering impact as to whether or not he could ever be regarded as a "friendly" extraterrestrial life form.

The collective noise of the humans milling through the halls grew softer during the journey through the winding passages, and after a while, the Helicarrier Lab came into view, glowing with light and filled with dozens of intricate-looking pieces of equipment and several long tables covered with stacks of papers, notes, and the occasional mug wafting steam from what he could only assume, based on the drinks quaffed in his base, was a rather strong brew of coffee, possibly laced with alcohol for additional measure. A lone table up front, haloed by a terrifyingly beautiful neon glow, held the Chitauri scepter on an observational stand; the man behind the table was peering at it curiously, a handful of papers covered in messy-looking handwriting next to the pen gripped in one large hand, poised for additional notes.

_Aah, sso **that'ss** the good doctor Bruce Banner, then. _The file kept on this human was quite extensive, according to Barton's recollection, and with valid reason. Property damage, multiple casualties, destruction of military vehicles and equipment...the man must indeed be quite important to this operation, if they were willing to overlook such issues in order to gain his cooperation aboard while knowing so much as a single fit of rage could bring the entire aircraft plummeting out of the sky like a bird shot down to be eaten for supper.

_Lotss of bad luck with the green sside, yess? No full acceptance. Too much imbalance. _The observation was innocent enough, but with a hint of grey-tinged sadness. Loki felt a wave of quiet fondness surge up to embrace the symbiote, warming and reassuring.

_Not everyone iss fortunate to find ssuch undersstanding. Compared to the difficultiess reported, we sseem quite blesssed. You and I enjoy thiss union, he hass had a hisstory of ssuffering and desstruction brought on by hiss own._

Pressure flickered both internally and externally in response, the peculiar yet comforting sensation of a hug both inwards and outwards as soft as a nest of warm blankets in dark winter. He took a second to enjoy the embrace.

The blunt, cold pressure of a gun being held to his back by the nearest S.H.I.E.L.D. officer dragged him back to the situation: Banner had stopped working on the scepter, though it seemed uncertain whether that was because he had gotten distracted by the parade of officers and one apparently maniacal prisoner (technically _two_, though Loki doubted they fully knew that), or because he genuinely could not figure out how it truly worked. Instead, the man was looking right at him through the slats of the observation window, eyeglasses in one hand and a look of confusion on the weary features as he rubbed the back of his head.

Knowing that this would likely be his only available opportunity to do so, Loki wondered if he should take the chance to cause further unease. A friendly nod of acknowledgement, perhaps? A nerve-jangling leer of a smile? A chuckle too carefree for the circumstances of a shackled enemy?

As it turned out, choosing to do all three left a rather interesting expression on the man's visage, a look that said that he clearly felt uncomfortable with such close scrutiny and very much wanted to be ignored, rather than be given the sort of cold smile most commonly found upon someone who had been left to rot for so long that there was nothing remaining but a dead, unnerving grin left upon the wasted skull.

The inappropriate sense of childish accomplishment was a bright spot of blatantly rude hilarity, as well as a rather appealing award in the face of the sharp jab in the back with the gun from earlier as he continued the dreary journey further into the depths of the aircraft.

* * *

The air was colder here, drawing mist-like breath from the lips of the humans; evidently, the Detention Section of the aircraft was too far inward to get the creature comforts of proper heating put into place. But the lower temperature would not be of importance, so he ignored the shivers racking the bodies around him as the place of would-be containment came into view: a large, round cage of glass, the walls at least a foot thick, and ringed by reinforced metal pillars. Judging by the size, the hydraulic rigs were to keep the cage stabilized while the Helicarrier was in motion.

A few buttons were pressed alongside a series of levers on a raised podium to the side of the bizarre prison. The primary front panel of glass abruptly slid to the side, the movement as seamless as the flow of water downstream, to reveal a broad entryway into the glorified container. The nearest officer promptly gave him a hard shove into the cell, barely managing to step back in time to prevent sudden impalement by the symbiote's unhappy responding flare of jagged projections from the surface of the catsuit, sharp as broken glass and glistening ominously.

To his grudging respect, at the very least they had the sense to keep the handcuffs on, though the idea of keeping the offending bits of metal on for any longer than necessary left a sour taste in his mouth.

_No matter, we can dissposse of them ssoon enough. _The symbiote rumbled a low growl of agreement, disgruntled streaks of darkening reddish-orange flaring up at the sore, aching feeling of the skin beneath the restraints.

A few moments passed in silence as the S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel filed out of the room, and he used the time to survey his new place of confinement, trailing long fingers across the glass as feet tapped and paced across the floor.

_Hmm, the entry door openss and clossess upon the command of the control panel outsside, and there appearss to be ssome ssort of hollow sspace underneath the floor here, an extra sstorage room underneath into which to drop the imprissoned and then deplete air for a torture processs, perhapss? The full view provided by the glasss givess no privacy, and may be to fosster a ssensse of clausstrophobia for keeping anyone imprissoned in an unnerved sstate; they could not plan properly without being noticed._

The prison was not built for him, of that Loki was certain. If it was built with _him_ in mind as the original intended prisoner, there would be an excessive amount of magic-suppressants on every inch of the enclosure, and the strongest truth serum available forced down his throat before he stepped so much as an inch through the doorway. There would be bindings to keep him from moving without permission, and something to keep him from talking, for fear that he would somehow lie or charm his way out.

_Oh yess, thiss iss an ill-fitting prisson **indeed**..._

A low, guttural half-choking sound, that of a throat being cleared, drew his attention forcibly away from continuing to examine his new place of confinement: one human had not left the room as his fellows had, and the single visible eye glaring coldly at him was easily recognizable. A single thick finger rested casually against the surface of one of the buttons on the control panel, ready to press down and unleash Norns knew what perceived horror upon the slightest sign of movement, hostile or otherwise.

"Just so you know, it case it's unclear to your damn lunatic mind, this box is going to be home sweet home from now on until I figure out exactly what to zap your stupid ass with. So if you try to escape, if you so much as put a _single_ scratch on that glass..."

The button was pushed down, and an eerie whistling sound could be heard below; Loki peered through the glass at the panel for a moment, before directing his gaze downwards as much as possible, but the floor was still sound beneath his feet. A silent spell to peer through the surface to the hollow space below proved rather unpleasant: the sight was of the open hatch below the cage, a gaping maw of emptiness from which the shriek of wind billowed, harsh and high as a vengeful spirit, and the scent of salt wafted upwards like the rotting stench of fallen foes. Far, far below, the ocean raged in a tumultuous soup of greyish-blue waves, deep cobalt boiling and rolling under the surface in great undulating pulses like the beating of some unnatural organ long since expected to expire.

An instinctive step backwards from the would-be precarious area left echoes clanging inside the cage, and he cursed inwardly at the sound, forcing down the unpleasant sensation of bile creeping up his throat at the sickening appearance of the water thousands of feet down below. The wind flickered suddenly in his ears, a hiss of sea salt that reached down and tugged cruelly at the base of a fear rooted in the forceful imposition of the power of gravity, and he crushed the unthinking, panic-borne urge to cry out.

But he thought that perhaps, just perhaps, a bit of leeway could be given to him. Ultimately, time and experience had taught him that good fortune did not smile upon him in regards to the act of falling.

Fury gave a look of grim satisfaction at the sight of the quiet, statue-still form in the cell, pointing to the control panel once more. "Thirty thousand feet down to hell, straight down in a steel trap to wrap everything up real neat and pretty. You get how that works, then?"

A flick of a finger, and the hatch closed up again. The digit pointed at Loki, and the god wondered if the human knew how rude that was.

"Ant."

The finger moved back, now pointing at the button to open the hatch that would drop anyone in the cage into the trap below.

"Meet Boot."

Each of the words held a distinctly mocking edge, and he knew it was done purposefully. The thought was both amusing and irritating all at once. _How very juvenile._

But he could not help smirking, all the same; playing nonchalant, even relaxed, in the face of such an obvious measure of control would serve to both annoy and unnerve all at once, and such a statement would also work as a worthy distraction from his brief slippage in self-control. Slipping back into his new speech patterns, he tested the distant sense of relief that the return to newly forged words offered. "An impresssive feat of dessign for a cage, we musst admit. But not built, we think, with _uss_ in mind." _  
_

"You want a gold star for that little statement there? This was built for something a hell of a lot stronger than you in it, but beggars can't be choosers."

The symbiote's mental hiss of rage at the casual, purposely callous dismissal burned with sparks of raging scarlet, threatening to ignite into an inferno of wrath.

_Foolissh human mockss uss sso, we will crussh your sskull and leech out your eye, force it down your throat and watch you choke-!_

_There iss no point to wassting your energy on inssulting one who cannot even realize they are being inssulted. He cannot hear your voice, he lackss the ability. _

_Can we eat him later?_

The dark look of gloating satisfaction in the visible eye was incentive enough to make him pause for thought and consider the idea.

_...When we leave here, if we encounter him, then why not? And if not him, perhapss ssomeone elsse? A full meal would do uss a good sservice. But it will not be eassy, I warn you. _

A pulse of fiery golden acquiescence sealed the deal, and he settled back against the glass of the cage, meeting Fury's gaze levelly as a smirk danced into place across his lips, an answer pressing a mouthful of words forth. "Oh, we'd _heard_."

The camera in the upper ceiling corner, he noticed, moved ever so slightly at the words, the action seeming almost accidental. _Aah, ever the watcher, thesse people. Little metal verssionss of Heimdall to plague thiss room with, then? _

Turning his gaze upward, he looked directly into the camera, letting the too-wide smirk stretch across his visage as eyes flickered with pinpricks of oily sable, pupils thinning and shrinking to thin, feline slices to help maximize the unnerving effect. A few seconds to let the image sink in, and he began to speak again, taking care to lean forward to help carry the sound._**  
**_

_Time to tesst out how far I can pussh them again. The pot can only hold sso much water before boiling over, after all. _

"The mindlesss beasst, making play that it'ss sstill a man. A man far out of hiss time of originss, far from home and family once known. A weaponss dealer who wanderss about thiss airsship in a walking armory. And to think, that'ss only about _half_ of them, if not accounting for your sspider and the firsstborn fool too. Jusst how frightened, how worried, how very dessperate _are _you, that you call upon ssuch losst creaturess to defend you?"

Somewhat unfortunately, Fury seemed immune to the eerie expression. "How desperate am _I_? Let me explain to you, here and now, just how desperate I am. You come here, threatening my world with war, take those under my command like they're nothing but toys, you steal a force you can't even hope to _try _and control! And you have the balls to ask me just _how desperate I am_?"

He turned and paced before the cage, visible eye narrowed in an expression of frigid immobility. "You, the little shit that you are, are a walking contradiction. You talk about peace, and yet you kill cause it's _fun. _You have made me very, very desperate, and desperation makes humans do really crazy things. Do try to remember that, because you might not be glad that you did this, and I'm not here to just explain why you messed up."

Loki took a moment to contemplate the words, a reply formulating itself upon his tongue even as the symbiote's mental hiss of rage left jagged sprays of scarlet bleeding through the mindscape like a fresh dose of spilt blood. Another moment was taken to ensure the reply was as purposely rude as he could make it, as conversing with the man was terribly _boring_. He had far worse threats hanging overhead by his employer; the implication of future pain from the human before him was_ nothing_ in comparison.

_I am under threat of death and much, much worsse already. You think your petty threatss of torture can posssibly match up to ssuch grissly promissess from _**_him_**_? There iss no pain you can inflict upon thiss body that hass not already been performed until it hass been perfected for agoniess unknown before. _

"Ooh, how quaint, you're _angry_. It burnss you, doessn't it? It hurtss to have come sso very, very _closse. _To have the Tessseract, to have ssuch power, unlimited and ssteady power, and bound to none but your own kind. And for what? A warm light for all of mankind to sshare, and then to have been sso rudely reminded of what _real _power iss. We think it rankless ssomething fierce, doessn't it?"

The smile he was given in reply was somewhat strange, but the bitter cold hidden behind it was a sign of good progress, Loki decided. _Now if only we knew which button to presss to make it manifesst into proper rage..._

"Well, let me know if Real Power wants a magazine or something, hmm?" The words were mocking in their odd semblance of friendly banter, but perhaps that was to be expected.

Fury turned and walked out, leaving the room silent once more. Loki turned and looked back at the camera, letting another unnerving smirk flicker and then vanish across his face.

_That went rather well, I think. _

* * *

The Debriefing room seemed altogether too small as silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of typing could be heard from a laptop, stilted and hesitant, as if afraid to break the imposing veil of quiet.

Thor, who had refused to even look at the view of the cage provided by the camera, stood in a daze, a look of stunned incomprehension on his face. Mjolnir's handle was gripped hard in one large hand, the leather visibly darkening from the strain being forced upon it from the pressure of the thunder god's fingers. Steve looked at the monitor, watching in silence until the screen turned black.

"Well, that was...interesting. He really grows on you, doesn't he?"

The words were joking, a jest done to alleviate the tension suddenly threatening to crush the room, but Steve gratefully seized the opportunity to speak, wanting to drive out the unpleasant silence.

"Yeah, like a damn bacterial infection. Loki's gonna drag this out, and he'll do it until we all crack from the suspense. That's not an option here. So, Thor, what's his play? Any ideas why he's doing this?"

A few moments passed as Thor visibly came back to the current situation, the shaggy golden mane swishing back and forth as he shook his head to clear away any lingering thoughts. "He...Loki has an army in his control, a race of beings called the Chitauri. I know not where he got them, as they are not of Asgard, or even of any world known to me. He means to lead them into battle against your people, to raze, to raid, or to rule, I am unsure which. They will win him your...Earth, in return, I suspect, for the Tesseract."

The somewhat incredulous look that he received in turn was, though irritating, to be expected. "An army? An army from outer space, as in..._actual_ outer space?"

Bruce gave a curt nod, turning to offer his own input to the conversation. "So he must be building another portal, then. A way to let them travel here. That's what he must need Erik Selvig for, he understands the physics required for wormholes."

Thor blinked, a look of confusion flickering across the blue eyes. "Selvig, you say?"

"Mhmm, that's the one. He's an astrophysicist we called in to work on the Tesseract...that is, before your crazy brother went and stole both of them."

A smile broke out on the tanned visage, the first proper one since arriving on this grim errand. "A friend as well, in my case."

The low sound of a throat being cleared brought the moment of peace to a screeching halt. "Well, friend or not, he's not on our side right now. Loki's got him under some kind of brainwashing spell, along with...another one of ours."

"Well, what I'd like to know is why Loki even let us take him in. He's certainly not leading an army from in here, he's stuck in a cell with no way out but a close up meeting with the cold, dark ocean."

Dark brown eyes narrowed, brow furrowing in concentration as thoughts were pondered and discarded. "Really, I don't think we should be focusing on Loki too much. The guy's not exactly mentally stable, is he? From what I've seen, his brain's like a bagful of wet cats, all chaos and rage. You could _smell _the crazy on him when Fury talked to him. He referred to himself as more than one person, for crying out loud. That can't exactly look good for the state of his mind."

At this, Thor seemed to rouse himself once more, eyes narrowing slightly in the beginning stirrings of anger. "Take a care how you speak. Loki is beyond reason, though I do not yet know why, but he _is _of Asgard, and my brother besides."

The various looks of pitying scorn on the people around him spoke volumes otherwise. "Thor, he killed eighty people in two days, stole over a dozen S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles and personnel, and made some crazy international headlines with that little eye-snatching and population subjugation stunt he pulled back in Germany."

Thick blonde eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the statement. "He's adopted," Thor offered in reply, is if that would explain everything.

Perhaps, to him, it did, although it was difficult to understand whether he found the kill count shamefully low, or horrifying.

Shaking his head at the abject loss of understanding, Steve turned to the other people in the room and began steering the conversation to the subject of Iridium.

* * *

It had been some time since he had been left to his own devices, though for how long, Loki was uncertain. There was no way to properly tell time in this place, given the lack of visible timekeeping devices, windows opening to the outside world, or a known schedule.

Despite his reluctance to let his guard down, the events of the past few days had been too taxing to ignore without consequences to health and awareness, and after a few hours of pacing back and forth in the cell with no human company but the presence of the camera, he had been forced to acknowledge, even if only inwardly to the symbiote, that the demands of their shared vessel required a proper amount of sleep. Scrounging together what remained of his magic, he wove a handful of warding spells together to render the inside of the cell blanketed in silence, the encircling wall now projecting a false image of a still pacing, angered prisoner.

The symbiote warbled softly, pale blue whorls of thought whirling with exhaustion. _Ssleep ssoon?_

_Yess, ssleep now, in fact. We might be able to catch a few hourss of resst, if we keep the wardss in place until the humanss return. _

A low grumble of acquiescence, and the symbiote quieted, pressing in closer to pool against shared skin, the lukewarm, silken form flowing around the lean body to trap in what meagre heat was afforded in the glass cage. Loki settled down upon the cold floor, testing the surface once more for touch-activated traps. The hollow space below the floor was still sickeningly present as he examined the deceptively stable-looking surface, and he forced away the wave of nausea that rolled up like poisoned wine as earlier memories of the water far below resurfaced.

_No resst will be gotten while upon **thiss** floor. _

Looking up at the ceiling, an idea flickered to life, a soft candlelight of thought in the dark claustrophobia of the see-through prison. _Perhapss we were looking in the wrong place for ssomewhere to resst thiss head?_

The symbiote regarded the empty stretch of space up above, mapping out the seams dividing ceiling from encircling wall. _We need a bed. _

Loki held out his hands, palms facing upwards and already sparking with magic; even with magic reserves dwindled to almost nothing, the sacrifice would serve a purpose in giving the first peaceful sleep since they had arrived upon this world. They were both so very, very tired...

A moment passed, and he refused to acknowledge the faint sparks of alarm when his hands shook from the strain of being held in place without the support of something to grip. Had they truly gone without respite for so long? Surely the food obtained from Stuttgart had staved off at least a small bit of this physical weakening?

The symbiote pressed forth a bloom of questioning pale orange. _Iss ssomething wrong?__  
_

_No, it iss only a moment of weaknesss. It will passs. _

It had to be. There was no other option available.

Another moment or so, and he felt relief surge through his veins as the shaking lessened, ebbing back into nothing. Holding out his palms outstretched, he felt for the remnants of his magic, and let the tatters of it flow freely into the chilled air.

A soft glow lit the inside of the chamber like the luminous state of a lit pool in the night, the familiar green-tinged golden light now dimmed to pale, silvery sage from lack of proper strength. Letting out a breath at the sight, Loki watched as the cloud of magical energy flowed upwards to reach the ceiling, spreading out to cover the surface in a dim glow of absinthe. The symbiote growled, tendrils reaching out from the catsuit to adhere to the ceiling and cling together, forming a rough approximation of a nest, somewhat circular and clotted into countless strands and knots of webbing for structural stability, to hang high up above the floor.

Climbing into the newly spun refuge, the god watched as the tendrils detached, seeming, to the naked eye, to simply dissolve their bonds to the makeshift bed once he had pulled himself inside. Limbs flexed and interlocked as Loki curled into the smallest position his body could afford without pain, the subconscious instinct to maintain as minuscule a target as possible overriding his exhausted senses. The symbiote shifted within, layering Itself against tissue and around the bones that served as a familiar cot in the dark of the cell.

Here, in the dark and the quiet, he could offer the remainder of their discontinued conversation from the mountains, and the symbiote's shared immense dislike of clamorous sound made the idea far too tempting to ignore. Leaning back against the surface of their sleeping space, he shut his eyes and inwardly forced back the unease that threatened to surge up as the symbiote coiled a slender tendril around the cochlear nerves leading to the brain, redirecting nerve impulses into a loop of internal noise. The faint whirring and beeping of the control panel outside faded into obscurity, then finally oblivion as the redirection of electrical impulses cleared away background noise, leaving instead only the familiar symphony of their vessel's internal workings.

_Ssleep now? _

_Only for a little while. I'll take the firsst watch, I do not know if the wardss will hold long enough for uss both to resst unobsserved. _

The quiet mental nudge of acknowledgement ended the conversation, the grip of sleep reaching out to brush long fingers of fading thought against their exhausted mind. This time, the symbiote not resist, and let the urge to rest take hold as It relaxed within.

Loki shifted and turned around, his gaze now redirected to the entry door to the detention section, sharp eyes unwavering, and began the watch.

* * *

The Debriefing room had long since been emptied of all but the most necessary of personnel, and thus the photograph and record of Jane Foster upon the monitor screen could be observed by the thunder god without fear of displaying too much sentiment to the masses.

Thor stared at the photograph before him, eyes softening as he took in the image of the woman who had run him over. Memories of his brief stay here flooded his mind, nostalgia filling him. To the side, Phil Coulson watched the proceedings with an air of friendly calm, a serene smile plastered across his features as he spoke up.

"As soon as Loki took the doctor, we took the necessary steps to move Miss Foster from the vicinity and relocate her to a safe zone. We've got an excellent observatory in Traunsee that we thought she might like, and she was asked to consult there very suddenly yesterday. A handsome fee, a private plane, very remote and with some of our men as guards just in case. She'll be safe as Fort Nox there."

A look of relief crossed the tanned visage at the words. "Thank you for your help. It's no accident, Loki taking Erik Selvig, and I fear it's entirely my own fault. I dread what he plans for him once he's done; Erik is a good man, he does not deserve this."

"He talks about you a lot, you know, or, he did before all this. You changed his life...actually, you changed everything around here."

The relief changed to a look of faint sadness, a frown forming to wrinkle the broad forehead as Thor shook his head in reply. "They were better as they were, I think. We believe, or pretend, on Asgard that we're more advanced, but we...we come here, shouting and battling like bilgesnipe."

Phil stared in what could only be described as an attempt to frame immense confusion in politeness. "Like what?"

If possible, Thor actually looked more confused than the man before him. "You know: huge, scaly, big strong antlers, terrible breath. You don't have those here? Any at all?"

"...No. At least, I don't think so."

"Good. They are loud, repulsive, and they trample everything in their path as if the hounds of Helheim hunt them down for meat." Nose wrinkled in abject repugnance, he turned to the other side of the ship and gazed out the window, seeming to be deep in thought. After a moment, he spoke up again.

"When I first came to your Earth, Loki's rage followed me here, and your people paid the price for it, in destruction upon an innocent town. And now, it seems, it is so again. In my youth, I courted war. Perhaps I am destined to sow the seeds of destruction wherever I go."

"I wouldn't be so sure; war hasn't fully started yet, and I plan on making sure it never does." Leather boots clomped into the room, echoing loudly in the mostly empty space as Nick Fury came forwards, single eye narrowed in a perpetual scowl as he turned to address Thor. "You think you can make Loki tell us what the Tesseract is?"

"I do not know. Loki's mind is far afield; it's not just power he craves, it's vengeance, blistering and strong, upon me for his perceived misfortunes. There's no pain that would pry away his need from him. Death itself did not deter him from it."

Dark eyes narrowed as a grim expression settled into place, immovable as stone. "You know, a lot of guys think that, until the pain stops. I just need to know how much to up it to." The words, dark and swollen grotesquely with a grisly promise, hung in the air after they were uttered, limp and ready as a set of meat hooks ready to be rammed and sewn through flesh. Thor's expression darkened slightly, brow furrowed in unpleasant realization.

"What is it...that are you asking me to do?"

"I'm asking you this: what are you_ prepared_ to do?" _Are you still willing to stand here and say you're going to help, even if that means doing something you don't like? Even to someone you call family? Are you willing to put Earth first?_

"But Loki is a prisoner." The words already felt weak as he spoke them, the sentence threatening to crumble to pieces, and the man's expression remained bereft of anything remotely resembling pity.

"Tell me then, oh _mighty_ god of thunder, if that's true, why the hell do _I_ feel like he's the only person on this flying boat that actually _wants_ to be here?"

Thor opened his mouth to speak, but found, to his inward shame, that he could offer no answer.

* * *

A dead silence had long since spread through the cage and the surrounding room, and Loki would almost call it calming, if not for the eerie red blink of the camera eye in the corner. The tiny blood-coloured dot was a sharp reminder that he could not fully relax in this place.

To feel overconfidence enough to mistake oneself as secure in enemy territory was to lose half the battle already.

The symbiote was a balm of quiet tranquility against this strange place, squirming and twitching every so often as It slept for the two of them, and a few times Loki became distracted for a split second by the occasional movement under shared skin, watching as the ever-shifting outline of his body's other occupant traced hazy figures and waving lines. Had the action been caused by anything else, perhaps it would have been disturbing, even alarming, to witness, but here it was a sign of such a bizarre intimacy that it was somewhat comforting. He reached out and traced the slow motions, feeling a few tendrils reach up to press against his fingers from underneath in a slight, almost sleepy gesture.

The moment of calm was broken when a faint sound approaching the door to the Detention Section became recognizable as a pair of footsteps, the barely audible noise amplified to hearing range by heightened senses and a rather valid feeling of paranoia. The symbiote squirmed in half-awake discomfort at the sound, evidently made rather ill-humored by the disturbance of all too precious rest, and he reached out a hand to trace figure eights and old runes learned from youth across shared skin in an effort to calm the potential storm of power.

_Who iss it making all the noisse outsside?_

_I'm not ssure yet, let me deduce from what we can tell sso far...Hmm, e__fficient, but not overly hurried pace; confident, it sseemss. Lesss audible than that of the other humanss from earlier, and thosse were all male perssonel. Female, then. They would not ssend jusst anyone down here, they'd fear ssussceptibility even without the Mindgem on hand to usse._

That narrowed down the list of human operatives with a reason to visit, much less at such a strange time, quite considerably.

_Aah, the redhead, then. _

A few moments, and then the human had stepped into the room. Loki turned over in the nest of webbing to watch the arrival, eyes luminous as a cat in the darkened space.

"You know," he offered quietly, "There'ss not very many people who can ssneak up on uss." _And thosse that do rarely live very long. _

To her credit, the lady Romanov did not change expressions, her gaze level, but not quite challenging. The eyes were analytic, burning with a bright intellect and a strange sense of what could only be _purpose_.

"And yet, you figured I'd come anyway." The words, sharp as broken glass, both pierce the moment of pause, and establish an introduction.

_Yet you won't tell me why, will you? For a bargain, for a threat, for an offer of relief from whatever horrorss your employerss can utilisse to get the prissoner to sscream out ssecretss?_

Perhaps it was all three, but he could see nothing to confirm it as truth. _Time to sstrike up from thiss end of the conflict, then. __  
_

"We did expect you-" _Truth. Your footsstepss were loud enough to end a very important resst period, now you've made uss angry._

"But not _yet-" Truth. Too early, unlesss it wassn't authorized._

"Not until _after._ Not until whatever torturess untold that Fury and hiss people can concoct had been played out on thiss form, did we expect you to come, and when you did, you would appear in the guisse of a friend, a balm with which to sstop the pain." _Truth. Bitter, very bitter, issn't it?_

"And we would, of coursse, cooperate." _Lie. Your people would not sstop, even if I did talk. _

The look upon the pretty features remained unchanged, but the glittering eyes now held a distinct look of _hurry up_, and so he obliged and fell silent.

_What iss it you came here for, then, if you do not sspeak of it?_

"I want to know what you've gone and done to Agent Barton." _Aah, the Hawk, after all. How touching. _

"What we've_ done_? We've done nothing, except perhapss to expand hiss mind."

Eyes narrowed, the expression changing to add a slight hint of superiority. "And when you've won, hmm? Once you're king of the mountain, what happens then? What happens to his mind, to _him_?"

The slight shake in the words left a veritable minefield of dangerous emotion. "How quaint, iss this _love _we detect, Agent Romanov? Or friendsship, perhapss?"

To her credit, he inwardly conceded, she did not flinch at the words. "Love is for children, friendship is for those who can afford to keep it, and I'm sure we can both safely say we're adults here. No, I owe him a debt, nothing more or less, and I can't pay it if you've got him as a lapdog to play fetch for you."

Taking a moment to analyze the expression on her face, Loki wondered vaguely if she had noticed the increasingly agitated movement of the symbiote yet, given that her words had sparked a level of mounting rage that had only been further helped along by her unfortunate disruption of what he privately thought was a well-deserved nap.

_Would you like her for the firsst coursse when we get out?_, he offered mentally, wondering if it would help change his companion's unhappy mood to a more agreeable state. It _was _still rather hungry, and tired, and upset besides...

_No. _

_Alright, but why not?_

At the surprise that emerged at the resounding statement, the symbiote clarified with a hint of faded eggplant-laced petulance, so slight and yet so strong that the answer seemed almost childish.

_Too sskinny. Even if the body iss all musscle, it'ss too sstringy for much meat. Sshe'd be an appetizer...and a poor one at that. _The distinct hint of rotting greenish-yellow mustard held the tang of bitter, scornful snark, and he felt amusement rise up in response.

Looking down at the human, he let out a sigh at the waiting expression. _Time to get out of bed, then. No resst for uss, sso more'ss the pity._

Gripping one side of the uneven hanging cot, the god swung himself over the edge, landing in a crouch on the floor. Taking a seated position on the cell's single bench, he crossed his ankles and let the words flow free, absentmindedly running the pad of one thumb against his wrists to help take the edge off the pain of the handcuffs, and soothe his other half before It lamented the lack of sleep further.

"_Do _tell uss, then, of thiss little debt of yourss."

Appearing to do the action against her better judgment, the assassin reached for a chair in the back of the Detention Section, pulling it up to sit on as she replied. "Before I worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., I, uh...my line of work caused me to make a name for myself. I have what you might call a very _specific _skillset, and I didn't care who I used it for, or on, because it wasn't part of the job description to ask. Then I ended up on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar after a job went a bit sideways. See, Agent Barton was sent in to kill me, but he made a different call. I haven't paid him back for it yet."

_Sso it really iss a debt, how anticlimactic. But to sstake everything on him? Perhapss that debt definess ssomething elsse too..._

"Hmm, how _touching_," he drawled, "But tell uss, what will you do if we vow to sspare him from thiss conflict?"

_Perhapss it'ss worth a moment to assk. If sshe'ss really sso fluid in her line of work, and willing to sstake the future of her sspeciess upon the life of one archer, perhapss we can get out of thiss box without too much bloodsshed yet...But no, sshe doessn't look **that **dim-witted. _

True to form, the answer given was quick, precise, and left no room for negotiation. "Not let you out. I still have orders, remember?"

_Alwayss with the orderss, you people are. You change commanding officerss like I changed sskinss on quesstss. _"Well, then, interessting. But no, pleasse continue, we rather like thiss little tale of yourss. Your world hangss in the balance, and yet you would bargain for only thiss one man?"

Blood-bright curls bobbed and weaved around slender shoulders as she shrugged, the very image of nonchalance. "Regimes fall everyday, and the world's still turning. I tend not to weep over that sort of thing, it's inevitable, and I'm Russian...or, I was."

_Sso you come here, assking for a ssingle thread of fate to be plucked out from the tangled entrapment of sso many otherss that are involved in thiss damnable play that'ss mere sstepss away from being a ssuicide misssion. One persson, out of how many otherss of your people that wound up in thiss? Attachment iss dangerouss in thiss game, remember?_

Perhaps she didn't. The symbiote rippled dangerously, tendrils clinging to bones in a grip nearly bruising as whispers of anger at the human before them flickered like candle flames across the exhaustion-darkened mental plane.

_Let'ss give her a little...reminder._

"Tell uss, then, what iss it that you want, little sspider?"

Large, sharp eyes stared back at him, calm and collected in their absolution. "It's not very complicated to understand, really. I've got red in my ledger, and I'd like to wipe it out and start a little...fresher."

Anger bubbled up, sharp and sudden and molten hot, at these words, burning at his frayed emotional restraints. _Sso, you want to play at being cleanssed, do you? Pretend that you can come clean and begin anew, no troubless, no memoriess to drag you under with their dark clawss of vengeful, gnawing thought?_

"Oh, really?," he spat out, rage frothing within, "Can you truly wipe out that much sscarlet from your hisstory, or do you jusst want to _pretend _you can? Can you really sscour from your mind the fate of Drakov'ss daughter, or what of Ssão Paulo? The hosspital fire? Budapesst? Your ledger iss not jusst dripping, it's practically _gusshing _red, and yet you," a laugh broke forth at this, harsh and choked as a beaten hound's growl of pain, "_you _think that ssaving a man no more virtuouss than yoursself will sserve to change _anything_?"

He stood up from the bench, rage thundering through his veins in threads of liquid scarlet flame, head pounding with echoes of the drumbeat of bloodlust.

"Thiss iss nothing more than the mosst basse of foolissh ssentimentalitiess, a child at prayer, begging for forgivenesss after countlesss heckling of wide-eyed peerss more green in undersstanding of your world'ss engine than fressh grasss! It'ss _pathetic_. You lie and you kill, all in the sservice of liarss and killerss alike, and yet you _sstill_ pretend to be sseperate, to have your own code of conduct, ssomething to make up for the horrorss inflicted by your sstained handss, and at that of otherss! They are a part of you, whether you keep them in fondnesss or in hatred, and they will _never _go away."

_I have sspent too long in the field of lying and killing to pretend that I can sstand fully sseperate from it, for I am bound in darknesss, and have accepted it. It accepted me in turn. Why do you sstand here before me, braying of a ssuperiority in moralss that compelss you to erasse that which forged you?_

The rage grew worse, a steady inferno of churning heat that pricked and stung at his insides like a nest woven from briars. The symbiote twisted and writhed, mental cries of rage turning to a sharp, guttural howling that threatened to leave them both blacking out from the force of the inward sound.

He clenched a fist, watching as blood welled up from stinging crescent moons of cuts against pallid skin. Advancing to the front of the cage, he slammed the bound appendage brutally against the glass, watching as a spiderweb of thin, jagged cracks blossomed beneath the broken skin of his knuckles, fracturing the image of the woman on the other side into a hundred splintered fragments. Sharp, glistening needles shot up across the catsuit like rose thorns, distorting their shared figure until the reflection of the mad god on the inside glass could not be clearly discerned as anything more than a flickering dark shadow, wild and tempestuous.

"Let uss tell you _thiss_, then, Romanov. We won't touch even a ssingle hair upon Barton'ss head, nor sspill a drop of hiss blood. Not until we make him take you apart, sslowly, intimately, in every ssingle damnable way he knowss that you fear and loathe, and when he'll wake up, it'll be jusst long enough to ssee hiss good work, and when he sscreamss, oh, when he _sscreams-_"

He leaned forward against the glass, feeling the cold surface press against his forehead as he let the words loose again. "We'll ssplit hiss skull open, pry it apart bit by bit until hiss mind leakss out through the crackss like water hauled from the well of the Nornss, and while you die from the damnationss he'ss carved you apart with, you can both claw for air and die together. You want him back, we'll return him to you in the armss of Death! _That _iss our bargain to you, you mewling, pharissaic quim!"

She stared at him for a moment, gaze utterly blank as that of a doll, before turning away to walk back to the Detention Section's entry door, her posture shaken, alight with disgust.

"You're a monster, a devil." The whispered statement hung in the air like the head of a battleaxe, ready to fall and cleave the head of an enemy free of the connection to the shoulders and neck.

The laugh that clawed its way free of his throat stung like a handful of spike-laden nettle clusters as he released it. "No, you're right, but only half-right. You _brought _the monsster, here aboard your flying vesssel, and left your sstronghold nothing more than a pen to lock in predator with prey for an impromptu dance with death."

_Sso many devilss wandering here in the skiess together, and yet you paint the prissoner to be the only monsster. Monsster, leviathan, abnormality, call the enemy what you will, but don't sstand there and claim to be better, it will not hold true to either of uss and you know it._

But the look she gave him in response seemed altogether too poised. Her stance had recovered almost miraculously quickly, composed and calm as the still, wave-free surface of the frigid waters of the Arctic Ocean.

"So...Banner, is it? That's your play, then?" The words, despite being posed as a question, are too self-assured to be anything but an answer in themselves.

"...What?" The word managed to escape him before he could hide it behind sharpened teeth, and he cursed inwardly at such a blatant show of confusion to the human before him.

Romanov's eyes flickered with achievement as she tapped the headpiece tucked behind one milky ear. "He means to unleash the Hulk onboard, keep Doctor Banner in his lab. I'm on my way. Send Thor in as well, we need extra manpower in case something goes wrong."

She turned to offer a cold, polite smile, razor-edged, and walked out at a brisk pace. "Thank you," she called out, the sound echoing down the hallway, "for your cooperation today."

The symbiote rumbled in thought, echoing Loki's own inward confusion at the assassin's words. _...Banner? Sshe thought of the sscientisst?_

_No matter, sshe wass wrong. But she'ss pressented uss, albeit unwittingly, with an unexpected form of aid in esscaping here. Let'ss leave her to her asssumptionss, hmm?_

If she was willing to go and stir the proverbial pot of an assumed future based on her notion of his plans, why should she be deterred and convinced otherwise? Though, admittedly, he had not thought of releasing Banner's dangerously aggressive other side while the Helicarrier was up in the air himself, letting someone else do it for him without even realizing the mistake was far too perfect to touch, for risk of marring the chances of fruition.

The Detention Section entry door having since closed, he looked up longingly at the nest of webbing hung securely upon the ceiling of the cage, and braced himself to begin the ascent to the tempting embrace of sleep. _I'd ssay we'd more than earned our right to resst thesse weary boness, yess?_

_Yess, but you ssleep firsst thiss time!_

_Are you certain? You were sstill tired earlier when we began the converssation with Romanov._

_You did not ssleep at all,_ It reminded him. A mental nudge directed his attention once more toward their spun bed.

_...Fine._

Climbing back into the makeshift nest, he lay back and closed his eyes. Warding spells were recast and replenished with what remained of his energy reserves, and then he finally let the darkness claim him, knowing that he could trust his other half to look out for them both.


	6. A Flutter of Despair

**A/N : From treading down unbeaten paths and under and over hills, past valleys and through forests and across water, I come back to you, bearing an offering of a new chapter that I hope is to your liking. The past two and a half weeks, though quite busy, have been helpful in weaving together this collection of words, and with luck, they're hypoallergenic to your reading tastes (I can't promise anything very spectacular though, given that I'm still running off the remnants of a sleep-deprivation pseudo-high and a severe lack of tea, which is _unacceptable..._). The "differing perspective viewpoints" ruling from the last chapter still stands here, so please be prepared.**

**NOTE: I've noted this in other AU stories on here before, but some people can be rather...divided about the whole "Natasha won the conversation v. Loki won the conversation in the Detention Section" matter, so please allow me to clarify how I think it went, and how it applies to this story. ****To me, in a way, they both did win: Dr. Banner _was _indeed provoked and the Hulk was thus brought out, as Natasha thought, allowing for a usable escape opportunity and creating a self-fulfilling prophecy at the same time. However, I don't think Loki _specifically_ planned on getting the Hulk unleashed onboard, but he's the sort that doesn't look like they'll try to interfere with what's clearly a perfect chance to watch as those around you do your dirty work _for _you. Natasha is deadly, ruthless, and intelligent, we know this, but unfortunately for her, I really don't think she properly thought through what I thought was a somewhat out-of-character plan of "Since the prisoner, who is also known as the Norse God of Lies, apparently just accidentally revealed to me that he plans on letting out the giant green rage monster, let's trust this unconfirmed information and go ****down to the Lab and, to see if Banner has Hulked out yet or is in danger of doing so, poke and prod him with accusatory questions until it looks like he's getting a nice green tinge!". She held a conversation with the prisoner(s), used it to gather information as is befitting an assassin, and took action to prevent what she thought was a disaster about to happen, _but _the fact that she didn't actually ask anyone on the way to clarify if Dr. Banner really _was _in danger of Hulking out greatly confused me, given that her line of work holds concrete info in high regard for fulfilling missions.**** Loki has some serious self-worth and insecurity issues, but when he said that "you brought the monster" and Natasha took it to mean the Hulk, I don't think he was completely faking that look of annoyed confusion; I genuinely believe he was thinking of himself, but _also_ of Dr. Banner, since S.H.I.E.L.D. _did_, by their own admission, bring _both _"monsters" to this enclosed, heavily populated, really high in the sky airship that apparently only had one Hulkout contingency plan (not the brightest of ideas, I think...). Therefore, keeping his mouth shut and letting Natasha go run off and play "poke the sleeping bear in the eye with a really sharp stick" was an opportunity that he saw come up, and thus he chose to take it as an emerging escape opportunity. **

**Note #2: Having the scepter (and, by literal extent, the Mindgem) with the humans was logical, given that they stripped it from him when he was taken onto the Helicarrier, but the fact that apparently not a single person thought of putting it in some sort of quarantine area or locked soundproof box was also rather confusing. They've seen Loki use it to alter the thought processes of others, but then they take it and handle it in what appears to be a rather reckless manner (no protective gear, nobody on standby to snap them out of it if they get "zapped", etc.), and then they _hold an extremely revealing conversation right in front of it_ like nothing's out of the ordinary. I'm honestly amazed that nothing worse happened. If nothing else, did they not even wonder if he could somehow _hear _them through that thing? Stranger things have happened in the past few days, right?**

**NOTE #3: This chapter (which I made longer than usual in celebration) marks this story, as of now, to be my (current) longest story on this site, and I feel so ridiculously, stupidly proud of myself that it's _pathetic_. It almost makes up for having to write in the "he's adopted" line. Gods, I _loathe _that line, it's just so...clipped, and distancing, as if to say "I'm not in any way related to _him_." as well a sort of stiff apology of "Sorry, guys, he's sort of _expected _to go nuts and destroy things everywhere he goes." ****Every time I hear it, I can _feel_ my teeth ache in anticipation of grinding down to the roots. **

**...Although it _does_ make it rather cruelly satisfying to see the Hulk punch Thor.**

**WARNING: Your usual cocktail, shaken (_not_ stirred) of varying parts gore, foul language, disturbing imagery, semi-graphic violence, dark humor, and, as garnish, a little twist of lemon-peel-scented _fear_ for good measure. If unsatisfied with your literary drink, please feel free to dash off and find a different story for your eyes to imbibe. This chapter is, after all, on the house. **

**DISCLAIMER: As usual, I own nothing of financial value to either _Marvel _or Norse mythology, or any of the little pop cultural references, phrases/paraphrases, etc. used here. But, due to my time away, I _do _now proudly own a lovely trenchcoat-tan dreamcatcher laced with tiny rocks the colour of a certain Angel of Thursday's tie and eyes, so, in a way, you can thank Cas for this chapter. If you wish to thank him, might I recommend sending a nice hamburger?**

* * *

The morning was bright, the sky clear and cornflower-blue, but the current occupants of the Helicarrier Lab took no enjoyment in it as, collectively, both Tony and Bruce stared silently at the scepter before them, untouched and glowing in unnatural neon blue pulses like some strange cursed organ.

Fury's expression of surprise at the lack of work going on would be almost comical, if the atmosphere didn't seem so painfully tense that a single word out of place might incite a verbal explosion. Considering the current location, such a blast would not be a wise thing to trigger.

"Just _what _exactly are you doing here, Mr. Stark?" The words, laced with a good dose of rapidly mounting anger, burn the surrounding air like hot coals.

"Um, see, that's the thing, Nicky dear," came the answering quip, needle-sharp without the usual coating of razor-edged rude humor, "we could wonder the same exact thing about _you_."

"You're supposed to be locating the Tesseract with Dr. Banner, Stark." The _and not poking your nose around where it doesn't belong _went unsaid, hanging like the looming presence of a guillotine in the distant sight of the condemned.

"Well, we _are_," Bruce spoke up from behind a cup of slowly cooling coffee held out by Tony, "The model's locked on very strongly, and we're sweeping for the signature right now, and when we get a hint we'll have the location within half a mile, so you don't have to worry about it."

"Yep, so you get your shiny blue cube back, no muss, no fuss, capisce? Problem solved," Tony added as he moved to stand beside his fellow coffee-drinker, carelessly waving his own mug perilously close to a stack of notes on a nearby table.

A sudden beeping sound came from the nearest computer monitor, redirecting attention to a new mass of files onscreen. Fury's visible eye bulged, face reddening as he took in the sight of dozens of exposed secrets; for his own part, Tony's expression was worse, the easygoing, cocky grin replaced with a thin frown and a dark, cold gaze like gazing down into a deep mine shaft.

There was no _warmth_, no _light _in that darkness.

"So...," he asked, the frighteningly cheerful voice at odds with his expression, "Just what _is _Phase 2?"

"Phase 2 is _war_, Tony." Heads collectively turned as Steve walked into the room, his steps heavy with what was clearly a new and unspeakable burden as he dropped a large, ominous-looking assault rifle on the table between them, the eight-armed symbol of Hydra looming out from the surface of one side, the blood-coloured image sickeningly sharp in detail to the naked eye. "Phase 2 is that S.H.I.E.L.D. used the cube to make _weapons._"

The word's spat out like the foulest of curse words, sounding as filthy as if it were a mouthful of tar, and his expression is dark, thunderous, blue eyes a frigid, steely grey-blue as he stared at the men before him with the sickened, haunted expression of one who had not had his rose tinted glasses gently taken off, but ripped away entirely to reveal a massacre of the flesh underneath the body bag covering.

He turned to Tony, expression briefly flickering with an almost sheepish air. "Sorry I was late, the computer's moving a little slow today."

Fury looked at the men before him, eye roving back and forth across each unhappy face as he spoke up. "Rogers, we gathered everything we could get our hands on that was related to the Tesseract, and even if nobody likes it, that includes Hydra tech. But this does _not _mean that we're..."

At this, something in Tony's visage crinkles up like a ball of paper, crushing the current expression of unhappy discomfort to a state of both disgust and the barest inkling of condescending pity, the sort that only comes from witnessing firsthand the horror that arises in another when a filthy secret is unearthed. "I'm sorry, Nick, really, I am, but you're a _really _bad secret keeper."

Calloused fingers reached out, expertly tapping out a series of pass-codes into the keyboard before he tilted the screen towards Fury; a multitude of weapons' designs shine glaringly from the screen, each plan detailed enough to have clearly been well thought out for some time.

"Now then, just what were you saying about not making weapons with secret space tech?" he asked coldly. There was no hint of joking warmth in the words, only the cold, dismayed certainty of already knowing the answer, and the horror of it.

"Looks like I was wrong, Director, because the world hasn't changed a bit. No, wait, it _has_. It got _worse_!"

The stinging force in that single word left the tension in the air pushed to the breaking point. Bruce's fingers tightened around his coffee mug as he forced himself to remember that there were over a thousand people on board with him, they were thousands of feet up in the air with no current nearby medical facility equipped to handle large sudden influxes of injured people, and the only option for containing the Other Guy was currently occupied by a madman. It was the only way he could ignore the slowly creeping tinge of green colouring his skin, like the insidious onset of infection.

A low _whoosh _of air signaled the opening of the Lab door, breaking the tension like a dropped plate as both Thor and Natasha stepped into the room, looking in apparent confusion at the, admittedly, worrying scene. The redhead gazed across the room, eyes zeroing in Bruce as if magnetized as she looked carefully at the chlorophyll-shaded skin.

_Waiting to see if I go and snap. _The words bubbled up from somewhere deep in his brain, but he knows that they're correct, horribly, terrifyingly correct, and without meaning to, words burst out, burning with frustration, anger, and a prickling sense of paranoia.

"Did you _know _about all this?" _Let me be wrong, this place isn't big enough for the Other Guy. Let me be wrong about something this horrible, just this once. _

But she doesn't seem to want to answer, because her reply's clearly both an evasion and an unspoken hint to drop the precarious subject. "Doctor Banner, maybe you should think about removing yourself from this environment." _Before we have to make you. _

He tightened his grip on the handle again, the porcelain surface creaking ominously as cracks began to form due to the exerted pressure. "I was in Calcutta before all of this, Agent Romanov. That's about as well removed from this world as you can get."

"Loki's been manipulating you, Doctor."

The laugh that broke out into the open air was ugly. "Oh, _really_? And you and your people have been doing _what_ exactly? You didn't just show up because you wanted to have a friendly little chat."

"And you didn't come here because I smiled and batted my eyelashes at you, Doctor. I'm not going to sugarcoat the situation for you."

He looked at her, refusing to flinch even as the green darkened a little further. "True, but I'm not going to leave just because you got a little twitchy all of a sudden. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to know precisely why the_ hell_ S.H.I.E.L.D.'s been using the Tesseract to make weapons of mass destruction."

The moment of silence that followed was sickeningly nauseating to feel, every second burning with what was, rather horrifyingly, hints of frustrated, self-disgusted embarrassment wafting up from the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. as the man looked up, the words seemingly dragged from his lips as he answered, "Because of _him_." An imposing finger was pointed directly at Thor.

Thor's look of stunned confusion was so real it might have seemed, had the situation been less tense, rather comical. "What? _Me_?"

A sigh left the man's lips as he took pity on the startled god. "Last year we had a visitor from another planet nearly level a small town due to a grudge. We learned not only is mankind not alone in the universe, but we are hopelessly, hilariously, _pathetically_ outgunned. The wool's been lifted from our eyes, and we got a massive wake up call from reality. _Nukes_ aren't even gonna cut it, thanks to you people."

"Surely you must know that my people want nothing but peace with your world."

Fury gave a look of mixed frustration-laced rage and slight pity as he replied, "Yeah, but you're not the only people out there, are you? And you're not the only threat, either. The world's filling up with people who can't be matched, can't be controlled, and it looks like the rest of the universe is the same way. I can't take that risk when my world is at stake."

"Like you controlled the cube, then?," came the quiet, almost inaudible interjection. Steve gazed at the people across from him, eyes shadowed as he clenched his hands into fists. "I _told _you that it should have been left in the ocean. I _told _you."

"Your work with the Tesseract is what drew Loki to it, as well as his allies. The tampering with the Cosmic Cube sent out a signal to all the realms that your world is ready for a higher form of warfare." Thor's expression was almost pitying as he spoke, the gaze tinged with the condescension of _you should have known better than to tamper with something like this _that seemed to be a universally understood truth.

The expression on the surrounding humans' faces collectively darkened at this, Steve in particular. "A higher form of war...a _higher form of war_?," he hissed out, eyes flickering with unpleasant memories of long dead comrades shipped home in hastily-cobbled boxes, sometimes missing a boot or their girl's self-embroidered handkerchief or their kid's wallet-size photograph, and all with the bleak, empty gaze of men that would never register the warmth of the sun or their family's hands again. _I already had to see that once, I don't want it ever again..._

"You forced our hand in this. We had to come up with something, but coming up with something doesn't mean we had to like it. Life isn't all sunshine and roses, remember?"

Tony let out a harsh bark of laughter, eyes dark as unpleasant recollections of explosives, darkness, and hot welding equipment burned through his mind. "Sure, get out the nuclear deterrents by all means. Because that _always_ solves the problem and calms everything right down, hmm? Why not just paint a giant bull's eye on everything we need to sweep under the rug while we're at it? Might make things a little _easier._"

Fury's expression soured at the billionaire's words. "If that's the case, care to remind me how exactly you made your fortune, Mr. Stark?"

If looks could kill, it was undoubtedly certain that Fury would have been incinerated on the spot. "You want to drag that up, right here, right now? After I've just gone and dumped all your top secret crap onscreen for the whole room to get an eyeful of? That's not just the pot calling the kettle black, that's being bratty about it."

Steve tore his gaze away from the Hydra assault rifle again, and the look of anger was back. "Well, I'm sure that if he'd still made weapons, he'd be neck deep...isn't that right?"

"Wait, hold on a sec here. _How_ is this now about me? You're drifting off topic here!," Tony shot back, striding forward to poke a calloused finger into the blonde's chest, brown eyes sparking with indignation.

Thor sighed from behind them, a look of faint condescension lacing the frustration on his features as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I _thought_ that humans were more evolved than this..."

"Excuse me," Fury cut him off, visible eye narrowing with rage, "but did WE come to YOUR precious home planet and proceed to blow shit up?"

"Do you always give your champions this much distrust, Director?," he replied, brow furrowing as blue eyes narrowed to slits.

"Are you really _that _naive?," Natasha rounded on him, her bright gaze tinged with a chilled contempt, "S.H.I.E.L.D. has a duty to this planet to monitor any and all potential threats, _including _you people."

"_Captain America _is on the watch list for potential threats?," Bruce rasped out, the chuckle accompanying it almost more of a grating mockery, "Are you _kidding_ me?"

Tony hurtled himself into the verbal fray, offering his own piece as he looked at Steve with mocking glee. "Oh, this is just _rich. _It really is. _You're_ on the list? Are you above or below angry bees? How threatening you are! I feel so very threatened by _an oversized_ _Ken Doll._"

Steve refused to fully rise to the bait, but his normally bright eyes were dark with grim warning as he clenched his fists behind his back in an effort not to hit the man in front of him. "I swear, Stark, one more crack out of you, I swear, just _one _more crack...!"

Fury opened his mouth to speak, trying to fight his own anger at the seemingly hopeless situation as he tried to calm down the fighting mass before him.

In the corner, unnoticed and glowing like the neon-bright bacteria of an Angler-fish's lure to tempt prey into a trap, the Mind Gem pulsed steadily from atop the confiscated scepter.

* * *

The daylight shone, pale and luminous as a ghost, the wind howling like the angered, mournful cries of the long dead as a lone carrier airship hovered overhead from the Helicarrier like the distant presence of a vulture over carrion.

A voice crackled over the interface, distorted slightly by static, but clear enough to be understood. "661 BRAVO, please relay your pass-code for admission. What is your hull, over?"

Sharp eyes gleamed in wolfish anticipation as nimble fingers notched an arrow into place. "This is arms to ammunition, over."

The sound of body armor being put on accompanied the clanking and clicking of loading guns as the crew onboard armed themselves, blue eyes sharp with the adrenaline rush of oncoming battle.

_Looks like we've made it. Time to let loose._

* * *

The inside of the Lab was a frightening jumble of seething emotions, scalding and sharp. Eyes darted back and forth to scrutinize each face, frustration rubbing painfully against distrust.

"You speak of order and control, and yet you court chaos as if it were your beloved and you, the besotted fool, are blinded to what ails it." Thor's voice rang with an echo of loftiness, the ingrained hold of age-old mannerisms rearing itself up instinctively.

Bruce interjected before his fellow humans forgot that the man before them was a god and tried a drastic measure to gain some much-needed silence. "Well, that's his M.O., isn't it? I can't exactly say we're the most model of working teammates, are we? No, no, and _no. _We're not a stable solution, we're a chemical mix that's a recipe to make chaos. We're not a unit, we're...we're a time-bomb. And the countdown's just gotten a whole lot less time."

The single eye regarded the scene with half-hidden alarm as Fury held out his hands in an uncommon gesture of placation. "You need to step away, all of you." _Stop before you forget why we're here and this all explodes in our faces. __  
_

Tony stepped closer to Steve, slinging an arm over the man's broad shoulders in a clear invasion of personal space as he gave a grin that showed off all his teeth in what was eerily close to a snarl. "Well, why shouldn't we let the guy let off a little steam? It's only healthy, right?"

Shoving the invasive limb none too gently off his shoulders, Steve pulled away, voice rising to a near shout as he snapped back, "You know damn well why! Now back off before we all end up dead!"

Turning to look face to face with the soldier before him, Tony looked at the angry blue eyes and felt a grim smirk twist his mouth. "Oh, I'm starting to want you to _make _me, old timer."

"Big man in a suit of armor and some flashy gadgets. Take that off, and just what are you, huh? A kid playing _dress up_."

"Sorry, wrong answer, so no cookie for you. The_ right_ one is genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, not to mention a hell of a lot smarter than you."

Steve's mouth curled into a bitter smile as a retort bubbled up, the edges of each word jagged as broken glass as he spat them out, half-expecting blood to leak from his lips. "Yeah, well, I've known guys with none of that who're worth ten of you, if only that. Yeah, I've seen the footage," he continued, pacing around Tony like an incensed jungle cat, "The only thing you really ever fight for is _yourself_. You're not the guy to make the sacrifice of laying down on the wire and letting the other guy climb over you, you hide behind the nearest human shield and hope the bomb doesn't hit you."

"Well, Captain Spangles, let's see, uh...no. I'd be _neither _of those things, I'd be the guy that would actually _know_ just where to cut the damn wire!"

The smile didn't flicker, but became tinged with a slightly cutting edge, verging on dark. "You know, you're always with a way out, aren't you? You know, you may not be a threat, but you better stop pretending to be hero, because you're not fooling anybody."

The words were the proverbial last straw, clawing into a well of only half-dry old hurts and regrets, and Tony's expression twisted into something frightening and ugly. "A hero? What, you mean like _you_? I don't think so! You're a lab rat, Rogers, just a real live guinea pig in stripey spandex squeaking for a command. Everything special about you came from a big bottle of souped up multivitamins!"

* * *

The ramp to the Helicarrier opens with a hiss, air rushing inside, as clearance was granted. The carrier moved forwards, aligning itself to another airship parked nearby to one of the large turbine engines. Standing at the base, the lone figure in black and purple held out his bow before him, calculating the effects of distance and wind speed.

_Time to have a go at it, then. Can't keep the Boss waiting._

Pulling a grenade-tipped arrow from his pack, he notched it into place and directed it at the engine, mentally counting down. _Three...two...one._

Twisting in place, movements smooth and fluid, he redirected his aim and shot the projectile roughly a hundred feet from the engine; for a moment, the only sounds in the air were the howling of the wind, the harsh intakes of breath from the other men here with him, and then a sharp, guttaral _snap _as the arrow executed a hairpin turn in order to slam into the engine and puncture the surface. A glowing set of blood-coloured numbers ticked ominously as the countdown began.

* * *

Even with the worried gazes of everyone around them, neither Tony or Steve seemed to notice anything, save for how to further aggravate the other. The blonde had puffed out his chest slightly, looming forwards as he stared at Tony with a vicious, angered intensity usually reserved for that of a predator about to take on a fellow alpha male for control.

"You really think so highly of yourself? Put on the suit, then. Let's go a few rounds, see who wins." Fingers flexed in an instinctive loosening gesture, preparing to clench into hard, brutal fists.

Tony refused to move, instead looking up slightly to meet the blue gaze unflinchingly. "Easy there, old timer. Wouldn't want you to break something, would we?"

Off to the side, Thor let out a bark of laughter at the sight of the two arguing humans. "You people are so very petty...and tiny. Are all of you this way?"

Tony let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing the back of his head before moving away from Steve, looking as if it was taking an extraordinarily powerful effort of concentration not to punch either the soldier or the god. "Dammit, can you not...can we just move on with this, before I lose it completely with you people and go bug the guy playing _Galaga _on the bridge?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind, I'd like to wrap this up too," Bruce added quietly, unable to tear his gaze away from the cracks in the surface of his coffee mug. _So long as I keep watching it, I can keep it from getting any worse. I just need to keep looking. Keep looking..._

Sensing the mounting urge to flee before things escalated further, Fury seized the opening to the conversation and turned to the redhead beside him. "Agent Romanov, could you please escort Dr. Banner down to his..."

"Um, excuse me, but _where_, exactly? You rented out my room, remember?" _And no one in their right mind would want to room with me, anyway. Not if they want to live to see the next morning._

"The cell, I assure you, was just in case..."

Dark eyes flickered with something that spoke of deep-rooted bitterness. "No, don't you lie to me. Don't you _dare. _It was just in case you needed to kill me, isn't it? _Isn't it?!_"

A moment of silence passed as he recollected himself a bit, the others watching warily, like rabbits peering out of the underbrush at the wolf who'd wandered into their clearing. "Well, here's a bit of bad news, if you haven't found out about it already. You _can't. _And do you want to know why? I know, because I've _tried!_"

He looked up at the faces around him for a split second, needing something to keep him grounded besides the handle of the object in his hands; he wasn't sure how much longer it would take before the porcelain shattered in his grip, and then what would he hold onto?

"I...I got low, _really _low on my luck. But I didn't see an end, so I got a gun." His voice was bleak as he spoke, as if reciting the words to a play he'd memorized by heart. "I sat down in my place one night. It was muggy out, no stars. I loaded the chambers, and I pulled the trigger, and I put a bullet in my mouth."

No emotion leaked through, and Steve's expression is now visibly shaken. Tony had gone a slight shade paler.

"But, it didn't work," and there's confusion, real, almost childish confusion in the words, because _it was supposed to_ _work_, "and you know what happened? The other guy spit it out. _He spit it out like it was a mouthful of toothpaste._ So I gave up on a lost cause. I chucked out the gun and moved on. I focused on helping other people, I gave them medicine, I handed out tissues when the kids had runny noses, I spoon-fed a grandma five blocks down who'd lost half her teeth. I was _good._"

There's something broken, sullen, painful in the words, drawn out like hooks from the flesh of freshly caught fish, and by now he has to force himself to finish. "No, I _was _good," he amended, "until you showed up and dragged me back into this freak show and _put everyone here __at risk!_"

The air crackled with a sense of lightning that, for once, did not involve the god of thunder in the room with them as he turned to Natasha, whose gaze flickers, for the first time since the conversation began, with a modicum of genuinely unnerved worry.

"You wanna know my little secret, then, Agent Romanov? You wanna know how I stay calm, how I _play nice_?"

Two sets of hands, one pair slender, one pair bearlike, reach in unison to grab for the guns held in side holsters and concealed underneath clothing.

"Dr. Banner," Steve stated cautiously, "Please, put the scepter down. You're worrying us."

_Scepter? What scepter? I don't have a scepter, I've got a coffee..._

_...Mug_, his mind finished weakly for him. Looking down into his hands, a sickening sense of horror welled up as his eyes took in the sight of the elegant, golden handle and the uncanny blue shine of the Mindgem, eerie and staggering and eye-searing all at once. His hands shook, threatening to drop the weapon and leave it to fall to the floor.

A sudden _beep _from the forgotten computer monitor drew everyone's attention back to the screen, and he took the opportunity offered by the diverted gazes to pry off his fingers from around the scepter in order to place it back on the examination table. His palms were sweaty, his fingers sore and stiff, and the reddened surface of his hands stood out in a frightening exposure of the imprint of the otherworldly weapon on his skin like an open, bleeding sore.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he listened as Tony let out a half-astounded "We've got it." at the sight of the model's data flooding in onscreen.

"Sorry kids," he rasped out, "looks like Bozo the clown's feeling a little under the weather. You don't get to see my little party trick today."

Thor strode forwards to peer at the glass screen of the monitor, eyes narrowed to slits and brow furrowed in apparent thought for a moment, before he turned to them all and asked gruffly, "This machine, it says you have located the Tesseract, then?"

"I can get there faster than you," Tony cut, "No offense, big guy, but I'm the one with rocket boosters on my feet _and _a GPS of this planet. You'll probably smash into half of the country's buildings and have to keep asking directions before you reach the thing."

Steve walked forward to stand on the thunder god's other side to offer his own piece. "No, look here, wait a second. _A__ll_ of us should go."

The thick golden mane quaked like the ground being trod on by a herd of caribou as Thor shook his head in denial. "No, you should stay here, and _I _will go. The Tesseract belongs on Asgard, no human is a match for it. The power of it would destroy you."

Tony shook his head in frustration, pinching his nose to stave off the steadily forming headache as he turned to leave the room. "Fine, you can come along, but don't even _think _about slowing me down."

Before Thor can even decide on a suitably offended expression, Steve walked over and put his hand on Tony's shoulder to stop him. "You're not going alone in this." His voice was sharp, the tone of _you have no say in this _as solid as stone.

"Oh, really? You gonna stop me, then, Cap?" A slight mocking smirk danced at the corners of the thin mouth.

"Put on the suit, and you'll find out, then, won't you?," the blonde shot back, blue eyes blazing with both determination and a faint hint of the earlier testiness.

"I'm not afraid to hit an old man, you know. You should keep that in mind."

Steve ignored the jibe, continuing to stare at the man beside him. "Put on the suit, _please__._" _Before I choose to forget my manners and punch you senseless._

The monitor, still glowing bright with data, flickered slightly as new information streamed in. Bruce leaned forwards to examine the data onscreen, before his eyes widened with realization.

"Oh my god..."

* * *

The trigger's pulled, and the arrow sunken into the engine explodes, unleashing a maelstrom of fire to halo the side of the ship in a bloom of raging gold.

* * *

A sickening lurch rocked the Helicarrier, the airship tilting dangerously as a symphony of screams erupted and continued to echo through the halls and rooms in a thunderous peal of noise. Limbs flailed in every direction as everyone tried to regain their balance in a flurry of desperate movement; save for Natasha and Bruce, everyone in the room had gotten thrown across the floor to slam into cabinets, tables, and the opposite wall. The gamma radiation scientist and the assassin are now nowhere in sight, but the new hole that's been ripped into the room offered a view into the equipment room below.

Steve raised his head from the floor, blinking blood out his eyes as it leaked from a new gash on his forehead, and looked up a rather dazed-looking Tony.

"Put. On. The. Suit. _Now._"

The man nodded, the gesture a bit shaken as he began to haul himself upright. "Yep. Gotcha."

Reaching out a hand, Steve helped the shorter male up and off the floor, slinging an arm over his shoulder to help keep them both balanced as they began hurrying out of the lab.

Clutching his ribs, Fury sat up, muffling the groan of pain that threatened to escape, and reached for his earpiece. "Dammit. Hill?!"

* * *

The bridge was in complete and utter chaos.

All emergency alarms were sounding off in an ear-splitting din of sound, high and shrieking as the klaxon bells of 20th century wartime Europe, and every agent in sight was caught up in a mad scramble for whatever possible armaments, few personal possessions, or USB drives they could reach as they hurried to their emergency protocol positions. The sound of harsh breathing could be heard from some of the younger ones on board, but no one was outright allowing themselves the luxury of crying in a combat situation.

Crying would not help bring back those already dead or dying.

Agent Maria Hill, however, appeared the farthest removed from being emotionally compromised as she strode onto the main deck, offering brief shoulder squeezes and the occasional slap to the face to those that passed. Sweeping a lock of usually neat brown hair from her face, she tucked it back into place behind her left ear, wiping away a smear of fresh blood from her new forehead cut at the same time, and turned to address the men in front of her.

"Alright, I need results, not raving, got it? Turn up that engine!"

The ensign sitting next to her had an expression the colour of freshly laundered sheets as he pointed helplessly to the onscreen data. "Engine 3 is...is d-down, ma'am..."

_Shit. _Looking at the man's terrified expression, she resisted the urge to shout in frustration, and instead took the opportunity to run over to the man who'd been so diligently playing _Galaga _all day on his own monitor. "Can we get a run in, then? Talk to me."

The _Galaga _player pointed to an area on the left of his monitor screen, gaze sharp despite the hours of gaming. Perhaps fighting digital renditions of monster calamari did something for his nerves. "The turbine's loose, here. It's mostly intact, which I can only be thankful for considering what could've happened, but it's almost impossible to get out there and make repairs to the damaged parts while we're in the air. You'd have to be superhuman to stay alive outside."_  
_

She stared at the screen with a grim look before turning back to the man. "We lose one more engine today, and _we _won't be alive anymore. Somebody's got to get inside and patch that engine, _fast_."

* * *

The air had been tense before.

Then the engine had been blown to kingdom come, and that luxury had been lost. Now everything was razor-edge sharp, harsh and heated as molten metal, and words were sparing in order to save breath while trapped on a ship that was experiencing the unpleasant sensation of continuous oxygen leakage.

"Stark! Dammit, Stark, answer before I think you're dead! Do you copy that?!"

"I'm on it, I'm on it! Now stop yelling before you burst my eardrums, it's hard to get reception up here."

Turning his attention away before he could shout something his throat would hurt for days for, Fury spoke into the mouthpiece and mentally wished for an aspirin. "Coulson, do you copy? I need you to initiate lockdown on the Detention Section, then get to the armory! You know what to do, now move out!"

Slumping against the wall, he added a throat lozenge to the mental wishlist. _What I'd give for good reception up here._

* * *

Light brown hair twisted slightly in the now ship-wide breeze as he ran to the armory like a man dying of thirst who had, against all odds, spied an oasis. Hurtling out of the bridge, footsteps thudding loudly, he hurried down the hall towards his destination.

It appeared that, to his awe and horror, the time had come to use _it._

_Let's just hope I can use this thing without shooting off any body parts in the process, it'd be harder to fire that way._

* * *

The lighting in the lower equipment room had been somewhat affected by the explosion, soaking it in pools of light and half-shadows as they awoke, dazed, upon the hard floor. Opening her eyes, Natasha took a few precious seconds to assess the damage done to her body from now being pinned under a massive pile of rubble.

Concussion? _No memory trouble or disorientation yet. Self-monitor for later doctor evaluation. _

No broken bones? _Nothing poking out of skin, or rapid pooling of blood underneath. __Check._

No open wounds? _Skin bruised, but intact. __Check._

Bruising? _Clusters darkening on collarbones and left side of neck, but no puncture wounds. __Check._

Bleeding? _Slight forehead gash, minimal shallow cuts on hands and neck. Check._

The assassin turned to look over to her companion in the dark room, eyes wide as they registered the sight of Bruce's visibly tortured expression, his breathing heavy after the hard fall. Tan hands held the floor grating in a death grip, threatening to break the metal into pieces, if the low creaking sound was any indication.

When he looked up at her, she felt a grim, icy sensation flood her senses as she noted the unnatural radioactive green shade of each iris, the black dots of both pupils dilated from sensory and emotional overload.

"I'm okay, he's okay," she whispered to herself, "we're going to be okay, right?" _Right?_

The only answer she received was the harsh, grating sound of the breathing of the man beside her as he struggled to retain a grip on his emotions.

_I don't have a protocol for this. _The thought leaves ice creeping into what felt like the very marrow of her bones. She closed her eyes and began counting backwards from one hundred.

_One hundred...ninety-nine...ninety-eight..._

A low hiss of pain became audible as a new, egg-sized bump was discovered huddled in thick dark curls, and she watched in paralyzed fascination as the green gaze brightens to eye-blinding neon.

* * *

The air ducts of the ship have been hijacked, but, rather unfortunately for the men pushing forwards within the metal shafts, they aren't, and most likely never will be, the most spacious of entry points. Hauling oneself along through miles and miles of thick metal tubing was by no means an easy task, and the occasional grumble from his men can be overlooked, so long as they don't give away their position to anyone near an air grate.

Finding a suitable grate opening into an empty corridor, prying it open and off, and rappelling down to the floor took only a few moments, and by the time they've all descended to the floor, he's already searching his memories for the quickest path to the bridge.

_Got it. _"Get that engine down, ASAP!" Several sharp nods, and the men break off and separate, weaponry clanking merrily.

He turned to the two left. "You two are with me. Let's go." Another short round of nods, and they head for the bridge, armed and ready.

* * *

Debris littered the hall in chunks of plaster, bits of insulation, and the occasional smear of blood. Steve doesn't want to know whose it once belonged to.

The air hung, thick and cloying with the smell of sweat, and dust danced about like snowflakes. Taking in a breath leaves his lungs burning in way he hasn't felt in years, and for a second he felt his hands reaching out for the phantom presence of a long-gone inhaler.

"Go find Engine 3, I'll meet you over there in a sec. Just gotta change into my suit first." The tech room looms in front of them like a mountain, the door huge and imposing and glittering with metal and thick architectural lines.

With difficulty, he manages, after a moment, to pry himself off of Tony's shoulders, idly noting the irony of the gesture, and wondered vaguely if the flare in his gut meant anything concerning the danger they faced.

"Just...get there in one piece, alright? I don't want to lose any more people today."

The cocky salute offered in reply wasn't quite able to completely mask the trace of apprehension in dark brown eyes, but he knew it would have to be enough.

A short moment to memorize the face before him (_as he always does before going up to bat against the enemy) _he turned and began running to the engine as fast as the obstructing wreckage would allow.

As soon as the other booted foot disappeared down the corner at the end of the corridor, Tony pulled his attention back to the sight before him, and drank in the sight of the shining suit that stood in wait for the call of duty.

* * *

By now, the atmosphere in the lower equipment room was strained enough that a single misplaced word might bring the entire area crashing down around them like a spray of metal and concrete confetti, and Natasha had reached the end of her countdown. In what light was afforded, she observed the man before her, watching with internally mounting apprehension as Bruce's pained expression stretched and warped across his slowly growing features, darkening green stealing across the tortured visage like a cloud of poison gas.

Pale fingers, the joints sore and the tips spattered with slowly drying blood, continue to claw away at the rubble covering her battered form as Natasha kept up a steady stream of conversation, trying to convince herself that the placatory words might appeal to the less violent parts of the only other occupant of this dark place.

"Dr. Banner...Bruce, please, you've just got to fight it. This is what Loki wants, do you want to just fall into that? We're gonna be okay. Listen to me. _Listen to me._"

But the expression on the man's face didn't ease up, and instead scrunched up as a fresh wave of pain rushed forth. Not for the first time, she felt a wish for a stronger weapon on hand than the gun, knives, or custom taser trapped against her body under the rest of the debris. Nothing in her current arsenal would be of use to her when the rage fully took over.

A series of footsteps coming from behind alerted her to the arrival of two slowly approaching S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers, each plastered in Kevlar and clutching guns in painfully tight grips as they locked eyes with her, silently asking _Do we need to intervene?_

_No,_ her eyes darted back as quickly as they dared, _and you need to go, the Hulk doesn't like guns. _She waved a freed hand furiously at the door on the far side of the room, the indication to run clear as melt-water, and the two bolted like rabbits at the gesture.

The potential threat of gunfire out of the way, she returned the rest of her previously divided attention to the situation at hand. "We're gonna be okay, I promise, alright? I swear on my life that I'll get you out of this, and you'll walk away, and nothing more will..."

Her attempts at calming down the raging storm are abruptly cut off as Bruce spoke up, green seeping further across skin, and the sound's harsh, primal, _bitter_. "Your _life?_" _  
_

The sound's an ugly thing, cold and raspy as snake scale over stone as the change warped it into a growling, threatening burst, and she felt the icy sensation creeping up again, washing her insides in liquid nitrogen as she felt her own heartbeat pound in her ears like an awful chant, over and over, _get out, get out, get out...!_

Another explosion rocked the Helicarrier, toppling crates and hurtling bits of the rubble to the side. Bruce looks at her for a moment, a split second of warring personas as his body trembled with the effort of disintegrating restraints, and then the lights, flickering on and off to wash the opening scene of the brutal transformation in snapshots of light and shadow, go out.

Natasha bit down on her fingers, tasting blood leaking out from the broken skin, to silence the scream threatening to thrash free of her vocal cords. "Bruce..."

She doesn't ever plead, but if she doesn't, she knows that this will be the end of her, and what will happen to the red on her ledger then?

She doesn't like to have too many debts, and she still has _that _one to pay off for years.

Bruce offered her a last knowing look, the expression almost apologetic, and then the sound of ripping fabric filled the air as the change was forcibly continued, stretching, breaking, rebuilding the unassuming form into titanic proportions. The redhead forced herself to concentrate on pulling free of the remaining rubble, eyes flickering up every half-second to keep watch on how much longer she had left, and by the time the transformation was complete, she'd pulled herself free from the pile of detritus and palmed a knife behind her back from thigh to sleeve in the process.

Crouching low on the floor and painfully aware of every breath she took as the potentially final inhalation, the assassin looked up and stopped silently, thinking of the possible escape routes in the room.

As if by some frightening sixth sense, the Hulk turned his head, flexing uncommonly-used bicep muscles in preparation, and his expression changed disturbingly to that of a feral, raging behemoth. Natasha felt her stomach lurch, the breath seeming to have been sucked from her lungs by an unnatural vacuum, and jolted to her feet, hurtling up the stairs as fast as her body could possibly allow as the Hulk chased after her, roaring like an incensed lion.

Sprinting like a gazelle, the redhead rolled under the nearest turbine, twisting her body to avoid the blades, and, taking a split second to find the nearest handhold, began crawling into the newly found maze of pipes. The attempt was just as quickly aborted a heart-stopping moment later, when the Hulk discovered that pulling the pipes out from above the catwalk yanked the potential refuge away rather well.

Another roar lit the air like fire, and Natasha wondered if her adrenaline rush would suffice long enough for her to escape. She had very few options left.

Taking a breath to help steady herself, she braced for impact and let herself fall through, dropping under the catwalk and within range of the nearest door. Seizing her limited window of opportunity, she darted forwards and escaped.

The scream of rage the Hulk emitted at the loss of a possible smashing target stood every hair on the back of her neck on end as she tore down the hall.

There had been absolutely _nothing _human in that noise.

* * *

Darkness seeped around the cage, cold and crushing, held back only by the harsh fluorescent lighting on the ceiling. He watched as the symbiote flowed and twisted patterns across his fingers in a slow, silken dance, familiar and mesmerizing in the shadows lurking about their place of imprisonment. The luxury of a nap had resharpened his exhaustion-dulled senses like a whetstone to a blade, and the symbiote had responded to the increase in awareness by warping Itself into a multitude of increasingly complex knots and designs across his hands to see if the god could discern each pattern.

Thus far, the game had been rather entertaining. _Far better fare than the lack of sstimulation given by the humanss that left uss to sstew in our own thoughtss until we were forgotten in the madnesss occurring outsside and left to rot in here._

The flicker of blush-bright indignation at the words flared up like a new breeze. _They can't do that. There iss no food here!__  
_

A tinge of bittersweet amusement bubbled up in response to the one-track thought. _It wouldn't be the firsst time I didn't eat for a while, but that sshouldn't have to apply to both of uss. When we esscape, we will look for ssusstenance. _

The words are a promise, and the rumble of pleased agreement that followed was a rather gratifying reminder that It knew he meant to keep his word.

A split second later, the sound of some rather impressive explosions pulse through the walls of the Detention Section, rumbling in the distant parts of the surrounding airship like an avalanche.

Looking up at the noise, the grin that appears stretched so wide that it hurt. _Hmm, that would be our cue to cut our little sstay sshort._

* * *

The air crackled with restless, terrified energy as Fury ran onto the bridge, leather duster flapping like a set of pterodactyl wings as he took in the increased pandemonium since the first blast. People were scrambling to collect and preserve what remained of their paperwork and files as orders were shouted back and forth. Every available computer monitor was buzzing with security video feeds and streams of information on the state of the tilted airship, and many of those up front to watch each screen looked as if they were muffling swears or screams.

"Take us out of here, _now. _Bring the carrier inwards and head south, we need to get to the water." The command seems to shock the helmsman, whose completely discomposed countenance briefly looked as if it had been slapped very hard, before he blinked several times and threw his attention back at his monitor.

"Why water, sir? Navigation's completely re-calibrated after the incubator, after all."

Fury had to forcibly resist the urge to shake the man in front of him until he saw where the conversation's logic indicated. "Is the sun coming up, then?!"

"Y-Yes, sir," the helmsman stammered out.

"Then put it on the damn left and get us over water! We lose one more turbine and we drop like a lead balloon, and I did _not _sign up for dying today!"

* * *

The air on the outside of the Helicarrier was frigid, stripping the inside of Steve's nose and mouth red and raw as he threw his entire body weight forward into the door, angling it toward port side with all the strength he could muster. He felt a sickening sense of dread fill him as he watched a group of S.H.I.E.L.D. technicians and mechanics, armed with full oxygen masks and tanks, bravely fight against the boiling heat, blasting away with over a half dozen fire extinguishers and taking turns between bracing against the heat and taking cover from the bright showers of sparks.

To his dismay, despite the admirable efforts, the men were largely unable to do anything, save for staving off the full effects of the flames for a little while longer. Engine 3, in sickening clarity, was dead, a useless weight, and the port side now had an enourmous hole in it caused by the tearing away of a large chunk of machinery and walling.

Tony was nearly unrecognizable from earlier; now clad from head to foot in red-gold titanium alloy armor, his cocky, spitfire, roguish air of earlier had vanished, and instead had been replaced by a razor-edged confidence and calm that felt as refreshing as a cool breeze in the worrying situation.

"Stark," he shouted up at the flying man, "I'm over here!"

The billionaire's helmeted head peered down and gave a short nod as his voice crackled out of the speakers. "Good. Now, let's see what we've got, hmm?"

Without another word, he flew down to the damaged engine, flitting inside within an eyeblink's worth of time, and Steve was left with no other option but to follow.

* * *

The viewscreen within the helmet glowed bright and clear with the streams of incoming new data as he took in the sight of the damaged insides of the engine.

_Dammit, they really did a number on this thing. _Calling up a blueprint of the layout, he scanned the design of the internal workings for several moments, taking care to memorize it with a note to improve the shoddy work, and then called out to the blonde waiting on the other side, "Rogers, the super conducting cooling system's offline, I've got to get it working again before I can get at the rotors and work on clearing out the debris."

"Okay, but what do I help with, then?"

Flying over to the jammed rotors, he began pulling vigourously on the damaged metal as he looked back at Steve and answered.

"I need you to get to that engine control panel over there," he pointed to the other side of the broken wreckage, "and tell me which of the relays are in the overload position."

A sharp nod of confirmation between them, and Tony promptly flew into the area containing the enourmous cooling conductors. Steve waited a moment, judging the distance needed to back up before the jump, and then flung himself over to the other side of the broken railing; for a terrifying split second, there's nothing but sky beneath him, and then his hands made contact with the rail and he seized it, hauling himself up. Within a few moments, the control panel's in reach. Opening it up with a bit of insistent prying, he peered inside and resisted the urge to swear a blue streak at the sight that greeted his eyes.

Countless coloured wires, bits of protruding metal, thick panels of circuitry. Steve hadn't seen this much of the innards of technology since the time that he'd accidentally destroyed his first cellphone, and this looked far, far, _far _more complicated.

_This wasn't covered as part of my reintegration, but I'm beginning to wish it was. _

"What's it look like in there? I need something to work with here," came the muffled call on the other side.

"Um..." _How can I put this... _"It seems to run on some sort of electricity, and lots of wiring."

A long moment of silence follows the statement, and for a moment Steve wondered if he'd said something unintentionally wrong, before a loud, gusty sigh echoed through the air.

"Well, you're not exactly _wrong..._"

* * *

The lower equipment room could feel sickeningly claustrophobic, Natasha reflected inwardly, when one happens to trapped inside with an incensed colossus.

Crawling and climbing continuously through the maze of machinery and pipes to keep as out of sight as possible, the assassin mentally counted the weaponry on her person in case of the frighteningly real event of close-quarters combat against the Hulk.

Knives? _Sharpened and ready._

Gun? _Freshly cleaned, prepped, and fully loaded. _

Taser? _Armed._

It wasn't the most impressive of arsenals when one's potential opponent was over twice their physical size and could shatter concrete and solid steel in a single punch, but it would have to suffice. She couldn't afford to be fastidious during a situation like this.

Peering cautiously out from under the metal pipes, she gripped the handle of her gun, knowing it likely wouldn't be sheathed in its holster for much longer, and waited in anxious anticipation. A few seconds later, the daunting reverberation of the sound of huge, crashing footsteps filled the air.

_BOOM._

_BOOM._

_BOOM._

The room felt as if it were vibrating, pounding, pulsing to some terrifying drumbeat. Slim fingers gripped the gun tight, then pulled it out sharply as she got up and slowly walked out onto the catwalk, ears straining and eyes swerving in fearful anticipation.

She spun in place as a sudden roar thundered through the air, firing a shot into the nearest pipe as the Hulk's huge, angered face was suddenly shoved through the narrow space of columns of piping, and the bullet tore through the metal like a knife through butter, emitting a sharp blast of frigid liquid nitrogen with a sharp _hissssss_. Wasting no time, the redhead tore off down the walkway, weapon held in a death grip in one hand.

The Hulk screamed in rage and agony as the blast hit him in the face, and responded by viciously bashing the metal into a mass of twisted pieces before running after her, howling all the while in a brutal promise of pain.

Within moments, she'd run the length of the hallway, refusing to look back for fear of losing hope of escape, but the sound of thudding footsteps and primal roaring left fear raging for space with the adrenaline pumping through her system.

_Don't look back, don't look back, don't look back... _The words burn through her blood like a mantra, a code to uphold while she ran.

But the end of the corridor looms up before her like a slap to the face, and there were no other pathways branching away to run through, and the Hulk's _still_ giving chase, homing in on her like some possessed bird of prey-

She turned her head to gauge the remaining distance before it's too late, but then there's a flash of green overtaking her vision, and then _pain _blossoms through every cell of her body like the unfurling petals of poisonous flowers as she was slapped bodily by a huge hand, knocking into the wall and landing with a crash to the ground.

It takes a sickening moment for Natasha to raise her head and look up, and the sight of the gargantuan fist raised overhead, poised to shatter her into a million messy fragments of blood and bone on the spot opens a valve hidden deep inside, and the fear comes pouring in, she can't stop it no matter how hard she tries to force it back down-

The Hulk's a split second from swinging downwards when the side wall burst open in an impressive detonation of steel, insulation, and plaster as Thor hurtled through like an oversized blonde wrecking ball and forcefully tackled the green behemoth clear through the opposite wall and into the room next door.

Blinking in shock for a few moments, the assassin could only stare in surprise at the newly-formed gigantic hole in the wall. _Damn, looks like I owe another debt._

* * *

The Aircraft Port was a large, spacious area by any sense of the term, but the masses of terrified, screaming humans hadn't completely evacuated when both the Hulk and himself crash through the wall and slam into the floor, rolling wildly like newly hit croquet balls across the surface in a series of ear-splitting _bangs_ with each moment of impact. Thor could only lament the damage being done to his eardrums.

When they came to a complete halt upon the floor, the thunder god looked up, muscles tensing in preparation for combat as the Hulk got up and stared challengingly at him, fists clenched and ready to deliver a brutal series of uncontrolled punches.

_Whoosh. _The sound whistles through the air like a plane flying overhead as the Hulk swung and missed; Thor, not missing a beat, retaliated with a punch of his own, and, to his inward relief, this one connects, ramming into the sage-coloured chin with a rough vigour and subsequently shoving the Hulk backwards, and nearly knocking him off his feet in the process. The resulting howl of enhanced rage rang through the air loudly enough to echo like a crowded concert hall, and Thor could not resist the urge to wince in pain at the assault to his hearing.

Trading and avoiding blows quickly became commonplace, and the Hulk's rage only grew further with each missed swing at the thunder god. Thor could only curse under his breath as the mountain of green muscle finally grew tired of trading punches, instead switching tactics to throw down an entire arm.

_By the Norns, not that...! _Throwing his hands up hastily, he threw his entire weight behind forcing back the huge column of flesh threatening to ram into his upper body like a falling tree, and shouted frantically, hoping that the scientist somewhere inside might hear him and try to stop his advancing alter ego. "Banner, cease this! We are not your enemies here! Try to think before-"

The arm slowly but surely forcing him backwards suddenly lifted at the words, and for one shining moment, Thor allows himself to believe that the man within has heard and listened to him, before his hopes came crashing down into a flaming heap, along with the sudden huge fist that reared up and slammed into his face with the force of an loaded eighteen-wheeler truck.

* * *

The sky had changed to a darkening grey from the clouds rolling in overhead as Tony blasted away broken debris, hurtling the smoking remnants off the turbine engine to fall into the sea far below.

"The relays are intact, from what I can see," Steve called out, "What's our next move here?"

Looking over the damaged condition of the enourmous machine before him, Tony swore inwardly before replying. "We've got a problem, Cap. Even if I clear the rotors of all this crap, this thing's out, and it won't re-engage without a big jump."

Taking a closer look, he let out another curse, this one audible. "It looks like I'm gonna have to get in there and push it manually."

Steve blinked in disbelief at the words. "That's not safe, though. If that thing gets up to speed and you're still inside, you'll get shredded like last week's newspapers!"

It took a moment for the knowledge that the other man was worried about his safety to fully sink in. "Then stay in the control unit then, if you're so worried," he shot back, shoving away the confusion at the words, "I need the polarity reversed long enough to disengage the mag..."

"Dammit, Stark, speak English, would you?"

Tony felt a hint of the old arrogant satisfaction resurface at the abject confused frustration he could hear in Steve's voice. _Yep, still got it. Let's dumb it down for the old man. _

Taking pity on his technologically-handicapped temporary assistant, he shouted back, "You see that red lever? It'll slow the rotors down long enough for me to get out, so stand by it and wait until I give the word, okay?"

Steve looked around for a moment, eyes casting about frantically before alighting on the object of importance; jumping to it, he stood and waited for the order to be given, inwardly wishing there was more he could do.

* * *

Thor let out a stream of curses as his battered body slammed into, yet again, another stack of supply crates. Raising his head, he felt a bead of ruby-coloured blood seep onto his lips, and wiped it off with a sudden burst of anger. A grim smile flickers upon the tan face, spiked with a hint of old bloodlust.

Not far off, the incoming roar of the Hulk echoed like thunder. The god let out another slur as he extended one muscular arm, hand outstretched in silent commmand. Blue eyes clenched shut in concentration, every muscle tense as a bowstring.

_Come back to me, like you always do.._

He ignored the niggling voice that reminded him of the time when the mighty weapon had refused to move towards his will. It would do no good to look back upon past misfortunes now, not in the scorching heat of battle.

The Hulk came barreling forwards him, and he shifted his stance in anticipation, adrenaline pulsing in an endless rush as he waited impatiently for his trump card to make an appearance; he could hear the song of the weapon's metal approaching, smashing through walls on the way back to his hand.

_Come back, come to me...!_

A few meagre feet remain between the two warring forms, and then Mjolnir rams back into place. He gripped the handle hard and swung upwards, the sharp _crack _of metal on flesh and bone echoing gruesomely throughout the air as he slammed the head of the mighty weapon into the Hulk's jaw, the force of the blow knocking him away to crash into a nearby fighter jet.

Only a moment of respite passes before the Hulk manages to get up from the wrecked area of the jet, shaking off the blow with a clear expression of annoyed confusion, then promptly grabbed the tail of the mangled aircraft, tearing it off as if it were wet rice paper, and spun in place for a moment before letting go. The jagged plate of metal shot forward in a blur, and it's only due to a reflexive drop to the floor that Thor was able to slide under the torn tail, ducking his head to avoid a collision as the tail sailed harmlessly overhead and tore the top off of the jeep behind him.

Leaping forward, he threw Mjolnir through the air with all the strength he can currently muster, and the Hulk's knocked down like a sack of wet cement on impact, falling with an echoing _crash _to the floor, the enchanted hammer in one massive hand. Getting up only seconds later, the intimidating green behemoth stared down in puzzlement when the hammer refused to move, effectively pinning the limb trapped underneath, and by extension, the rest of the attached body, in place.

Fresh cries of rage lit the air as a green hand the size of a small boulder wrapped around the handle and pulled repeatedly, to no avail.

Taking advantage of the other's current predicament, Thor hurtled forward and kneed the Hulk in the face, and the quick moment of dazed shock the move provided gave the thunder god all the time he needed to retrieve his hammer. Running up the broad expanse of back like a gazelle, he climbed on and slung Mjolnir over the thick throat, pulling backwards to give a unsparingly effective chokehold.

The Hulk roared in indignation at the rough treatment, and began to viciously tug at the blonde's hands, straining finger bones to the limit, before jumping upwards and rocketing through the ceiling. Thor, knocked off in the process, could only muster a brief moment of stunned dismay before a thick green hand closed around one booted foot.


	7. O Drumbeat of Destruction

**A/N: NOTE #1: Regarding the question of whether or not Loki gets the"Venom mouth" (i.e. the crazily-warped jaw, a nice new set of huge sharp teeth that look like they can tear a Tyrannosaurus Rex in half, and a long tongue that seems almost perversely prehensile) or keeps his actual mouth, allow me to explain. Loki is a shapeshifter by nature in mythology, film, and comic lore, and being bonded to an intergalactic creature capable of warping Itself into, essentially, ****_anything _****(if all the comics indeed hold water) would, at least to me, render his entire molecular structure about as locked in place as the Transformium from the ****_Transformers _****universe. For now, he's still got his original humanoid-looking mouth, save for the sharper teeth, but that doesn't necessarily mean it'll stay that way. Changing either one part or the entirety of their shared body into a different shape other than the standard tendrils or disguises ****_is_**** fully possible, but whether or not either of them actually chooses to do so remains up for debate unless it's needed, or one of them is really, really, really, ****_really _****ticked off. If that ever happens...well, perhaps it might be good to remember that a certain jolly green giant isn't the only one capable of turning into a huge living juggernaut of Go-change-your-pants-because-we've-just-reached-Code-Brown scariness.**

**NOTE #2: I can't seem to recall, even after reviewing the script, exactly how the heck Loki got the scepter back before leaving the Helicarrier after it was originally taken into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, so for the sake of this story, I've changed the stabbing weapon into something more readily available for the You-Know-What.**

**NOTE #3: Given the rather sizable chunk of words that this story has become, I've decided to expand this now previously-thought sevenshot (I feel somewhat sheepish that I couldn't properly estimate how big this thing would grow into) into either a nineshot or, quite possibly, an elevenshot or higher, depending on whether I include parts of _Thor 2: The Dark World_ for the sake of continuity. ****I think Odin should _meet_ the symbiote, don't you agree? Perhaps I should let It have a little more _fun... _**

****I hope you enjoy the chapters to come, and as always, please remember that creative liberty and AU concepts are applied here! ****

**DISCLAIMER: As usual, I own nothing financially valuable to _Marvel _or Norse Mythology, be it characters, places, weaponry of any kind, pop cultural references, phrases/paraphrases, etc. This includes the use of several of Hawkeye's rather intriguing specialized "trick" arrows used in the _Marvel _comic universe, and one reference in particular I hope you'll pick up on and enjoy...**

**WARNING: The usual gore, foul language, disturbing imagery, semi-graphic violence, instances of dark/morbid humor (although if you're anti-H.Y.D.R.A., you _might_ enjoy the next chapter). ****Also, Coulson. Now you can't say I didn't warn you!**

**Now, for your own mental safety, please strap yourself in, keep your hands and feet inside the chapter at all times until the end of the words have been reached, and brace yourself for the ride ahead. It may or not become necessary to reach for the comfort of a darling little WCC to hold onto as well, but please don't incinerate yours! They're _sentient. _**

* * *

The air was thick with tension up on the bridge, and every eye on deck was blown wide with shock and fear.

In their defense, it wasn't very often that a potentially live grenade slides across the floor of one of the most important rooms of the Helicarrier.

Fury had called for evacuation of the entire lower ambit, but time had not proven itself to be on their side, because as soon as Agent Hill had started heading towards the exit to fulfill the order, the fist-sized explosive device had appeared like a particularly vengeful spirit, leaving ice to freeze in veins and fear to bubble up like a witch's brew.

"Grenade!" The word bursts through the air like ignited pure oxygen, and the female Agent could only pray everyone had heard her-

A split second passes; no one moves, and for a mad, foolish moment, it appears that nothing will happen, that the grenade's only a dud, a washout, and then-

_BOOM. _

The grenade detonated wildly, knocking her down the steps as if forcefully pushed, and Fury's swear at the sight as he fired back at the open entrance could be heard by everyone on the bridge. Moving forwards to hide behind the side of the exit, he risked a quick glance into the narrow hall beyond, and automatically readjusted his grip on his gun.

A handful of men, their body language aggressive and determined, all with a serious case of _blue eye_, armed with weapons and, judging by the unnatural bulk on the torsos, extra ammunition and Kevlar body armor.

_Damn. _

Quick as an eyeblink, they've crossed the threshold between hallway and bridge, and he stepped forward, gun drawn and firing off dizzying bursts of hot metal. The resulting shoot-out left Agents all over ducking for cover behind their computers, desks, and even the debriefing table, shoving each other down and out of the general path of fire all the while.

Glass shatters and bullet holes riddle the surface of tables, chairs, and work-spaces alike within moments, but it's only when both sides run out of bullets and switch to hand to hand combat that one lone Agent, having since recovered from her abrupt impact with the floor, took stock of the situation and decided to use the moment of diverted attentions to reach for her own gun.

The last man standing from the converted personnel reached forwards, intent on finishing the job, but an abrupt _bang _rips through the air like torn paper as a bullet's fired off. He drops to the ground a split second later like an abandoned puppet, a newly made bullet hole smoking in the back of his head, slowly dribbling blood. Standing behind the downed man, Agent Hill held her gun out in both hands for a moment, sharp eyes roving over the corpse to ensure death was a certainty, before she lowered her weapon and clicked the safety back on.

"Alright, sir?," she asked quietly.

"Yes, Agent Hill," Fury replied as he stared at the sack of meat and bone that was previously his would-be killer. "I believe I am."

* * *

The air seemed overheated, stretched thin as a mile of taffy, as he approached the armory door. A panel slid open, offering a facial recognition scanner in a blaze of interlocking green grid-lights.

Eyes struggled to keep from screwing shut at the bright lighting as he pressed his head forwards into the scanner's range, and one brief moment of discomfort later, the door opened with a _hiss. _

The armory was silent, save for his footsteps, as he walked into the room. Every breath taken in seemed to be too loud, too strong, as if he was the only thing left alive in all of this ravaged, nearly silent world.

In the background, he could hear the intercom crackling in the hallway behind him. "This is Agent Sitwell speaking! The perimeter has been breached, I repeat, the perimeter has been breached! Hostiles are onboard, armed, and in S.H.I.E.L.D. gear. Hold onto every junction, and get ready go on the offensive if approached!"

Taking in the sight of his objective, he wiped the sweat off his palms, ignoring the stains the act left on his sleeves, and turned to face the weapon in question. _Time to get to work, then._

* * *

A hail of white-hot bullets had opened up aboard the bridge as S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents opened fire against the brutal efficiency of their converted soldier counterparts. Screams lit the heated air like fireworks as, one by one, men and women dropped, dodged, ducked, fired, and let the deadly dance start up again.

"Sir, the Hulk and Thor are engaged in combat! They've compromised the safety in shuttle levels 2, 3, and 4!"

Agent Hill nodded in worried agreement, hands already reloading her handgun with lightning-fast efficiency. "Sir, the Hulk will tear this place apart if he gets out and Thor can't stop him. What should we do?"

The air was thick with tension, tightly wound as the impatience-laced thrumming of a heartbeat felt against the trigger of a gun, and he felt a bead of sweat drip down the left side of his face, sticky and discomforting. It's incredible, he notes, how much of the situation must be spelled out sometimes.

"Well, what do you think? Go get his attention, and _keep _it. We can't afford too much more damage to this ship if we want to live to see tomorrow."

A sharp nod, and then the earpiece in Agent Hill's hand shrieks in high-pitched protest as she shouted into it, "Escort 606, proceed to 270 Main Shuttle and prep for active detainment! Don't get too close, and do not engage until directly in position! That's an order!"

The earpiece crackled with a brief burst of static as the reply channeled through. "Copy that, Escort 606 out."

* * *

Escort 606's jet flew forwards, banking to the right as it headed towards the shuttle with the grim accuracy of an one animal sighting another.

The sky rumbled with energy, greyish clouds darkened past gunmetal and well on the way to wrought iron. The stench of ozone permeated the air outside the jet like a lethal release of toxic gases.

_Showtime._

Slowly making its way through the air, the jet and its pilot entered the hangar. Eyes widened behind the helmet's protective visor at the sight of the Hulk lunging at Thor, teeth bared in a snarl, hands reaching out to shatter the thunder god into a gory pile of blood and bone.

But a job was still a job, and he still had a duty to perform. Hands automatically reached out to engage the controls, the screen before him displaying the target sign locking solidly into place.

"Target acquired, sir," he spoke into the earpiece, inwardly grateful that his voice, by some miracle, didn't shake at the sight before him. "I've got a lock on him."

"Engage, Escort 606. Be careful." It's not much in the way of reassurance, but it's all he will get, so, with nothing left to delay the inevitable, his fingers reached out and squeezed the firing trigger tightly, despite the urge to panic as Thor's given a brutal punch to the face, blood spraying through the air in a shower of ruby droplets as he was pushed back several feet before swinging Mjolnir forwards in retaliation.

The air seemed to freeze with shock for a split second as a hailstorm of bullet-fire erupted out of the guns aboard the jet, the heated bits of metal leaping out to spray the Hulk with a scalding shower. The moment ended a split second later when the green behemoth's head swiveled around in shock and rage, eyes pinning the jet with a burning glare even as Thor took the opportunity to duck for cover, and then the roar that burst out nearly shatters the glass covering of the jet's cockpit-

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit-_

The Hulk, having apparently decided to abandon the fight with Thor in favor of smashing the incoming jet into so many expensive bits of metal and glass, bounded forward and took a running start down the hangar's flight strip, roaring all the while in a way that left the hair on the pilot's neck standing on end, and then over several hundred pounds of green muscle suddenly _jumped_-

For a sickening moment, it felt as if his stomach's been dropped out of his body, his heart's stopped, and all bravery drained out and replaced by shock, and there's the sudden urge to both defecate and urinate all at once, and then he managed, albeit barely, to find his voice. "T-Target angry! Target _angry_!"

Fingers fumbled wildly in a mad dash to find the all-important _eject _mechanism as the Hulk landed on the nose of the aircraft; the jet took a dive at the sudden imbalance in weight, tipping downwards and spinning dangerously. Hands the size of trashcan lids reach down, prying off the cockpit lid as if ripping away a handful's worth of wrapping paper, and there's only just enough time to for him to reach for the handle and pull with sweat-slicked fingers before the enourmous face's shoved into the confined space, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed in primal anger.

Unfortunately, he's only up in the air for a split second before the Hulk reached out and effortlessly caught him, plucking both pilot and seat out of the air as easily as a silvery strand of thought, and then nausea and dizziness barreled through his consciousness as he was shaken back and forth like a leaf in the wind for a few gut-churning moments, then tossed abruptly away like a discarded toy.

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh SHIT- _The mantra came back like a blow to the solar plexus after a round of alcohol-induced vomiting, and for a terrifying second, he can't seem to find his parachute pull. Up above and rapidly disappearing from view, the Hulk roared like a lion in victory, and then white-knuckled fingers closed around the precious tab and _yanked-_

The jet explodes in a blazing rush of light and sound and fire, seeming for an instant to be brightly lit as a miniature sun, and then the Hulk plummeted down to the water below in a dizzying comet of poison-green and ear-shredding screams.

"Target...downed, sir," he rasped into his earpiece, fingers numb with the creeping cold of the air around him. "Into the water."

* * *

The port side of the Helicarrier was lit up in a blaze of molten light as they continued working on clearing away debris for the turbine. By now, both billionaire and supersoldier were tired and sweaty, faces streaked with an uneven smattering of soot. Every breath seemed to be super-heated, burning the inside of Steve's throat and lungs as he inhaled as much as he dared; even with the enhanced health and the departure of his asthma, the man could almost envy Tony's personal air supply provided by the Iron Man suit.

Carving out a large piece of broken metal with the aid of a few repulsor blasts, Tony jumped onto the hunk of metal, dropping it away from the now cleared rotors with a resounding _crash. _Steve offered a smile at the encouraging sight, wishing it didn't look as weak as it felt.

A moment or so passed with only the sound of machinery and distantly crackling flames and shouts, and then a group of men seemingly melt out of the shadows of the port side, all with guns in hand and the intent expressions of the sort of people with an important job to do. Steve, for a small, well-meaning moment, found himself hoping that, against all odds, they might be help sent in.

_Maybe they're here as extra help, _a small, hopeful part of his heart uttered.

A burst of bullets shot out like an unfurling of gunmetal-grey ribbons to slice into flesh, and he automatically ducked, hands reaching instinctively for the comfortingly strong edge of his trusted shield and hauling the defensive barrier over his face just in time to deflect an incoming grenade.

_Guess that's a no, then. _

A quick glance from behind the temporary safety measure revealed that the pin was missing, and as smoke begin wafting forth, he reached out a foot and kicked it back hard. The ensuing explosion left the surface underneath their feet shaking dangerously as he took the opportunity the blast offered to jump to the opposite railing, landing in a crouch in the middle of the newcomers and the now scorched metal around them.

The reaction to his arrival was instantaneous: guns were drawn and fired off like lit Roman candles, and it's only thanks to the Kevlar insulation padding the inside of his suit that there's not a new series of bullet holes to riddle his torso like a gangster's handiwork. As it is, he can feel a new smattering of bruises forming as he stood, twinging and distinct as the stab of a mouthful of dressmaker's pins, and the inside of his left side is stinging wildly in the way that only skin shaved off by a close-range bullet can do.

Steve turned and lunged for the nearest opponent, fists becoming a blur of jabs and punches strong enough to crack bones on impact, and the man dropped as if hit in the head with a sackful of heavy wrenches. Not missing a beat, the moment the man's down, Steve's fingers reach out to grab another, slapping him upside the face to disrupt equilibrium before shoving him headfirst into the side of one of his compatriots just in time to knock a gun away in the process of reloading. The two collided with a solid _crack _and fell into a tangled heap of limbs; he took the opportunity to dart forwards relieve them of their guns, throwing them off the side to drop into the water. A split second later, there's another two converted agents closing in and firing away, and the shield's pulled up like the reinforced walls of a miniature Cold War-era bunker. The air crackles with energy as he struck out with it, braining several of his opponents with a disturbing _squelch, _and one man's knocked cleanly off the Helicarrier's port side as he let the shield fly and spin like a discus, ramming into flesh all around before ricocheting back in a dizzying blur of red, white, and blue.

Shield in hand, Steve threw himself forwards again, spinning and twisting like some sort of demented human top, fists flying to ram into faces, chests, and shoulders as bullets tore through the air in boiling strips of heat and sound; tackling one to the ground, he tore the gun out of the downed man's hands, ramming him in the head once with the butt of the weapon to ensure unconsciousness, and then hurried towards his former position by the control panel. The oversized assault rifle felt sickening to hold in his hands, but he couldn't afford to be choosy about his choice of additional weaponry in the middle of a war-zone.

Sparing a quick glance at the rotor, he readjusted his sweat-slicked grip on his newly acquired firearm. _You'd better hurry up, Stark, we're running out of time here..._

* * *

The bridge's impromptu gunfight had, somewhat mercifully, died down, but the battle had yet to completely cease. Despite the defeat and even outright termination of their comrades, another cluster of converted men had shown up only moments after Agent Hill had put a bullet into the head of the first group's last survivor, and though these ones had been disarmed and detained with the help of a half-dozen rolls of duct tape helpfully supplied by a rather paranoid new ensign, it was clear that no one was at ease. All around, fingers nervously pressed against thighs, arms, and the handles of guns in an endless cycle of nervous ticks as eyes stared intensely enough to seem to bore holes into the skulls of the men lumped into a ragged pile in the center, tape sealing shut mouths and binding wrists and ankles tightly enough to cut off circulation. All the weapons that could be found had been stripped away and taken back to the armory for safekeeping.

Fury in particular was unable to understand why there was such a disturbing lack of fight put up, instead replaced by what seemed to a mere cursory struggle before surrender. "This isn't right, not one damn bit. Stinks too much to be this easy. They're not getting in through here, so what the hell do they think they're going to-"

He was abruptly cut off when an arrow was loosed seemingly out of nowhere, hurtling down the bridge and bursting apart in a blaze of fire and explosive trigger metals. Agents screamed in shock, ducking for cover automatically behind their workspaces and chairs even as Agent Hill shouted for order.

_Goddammit, I've had enough of these damn explosions already!_

An ensign's eyes widened with horror behind him; foreboding raced up his spine at the sight, and then instinct drove him to duck as another arrow's fired off, this time with a longer shaft and a bizarre-looking tip with various metal prongs attached.

_Wait...metal prongs...? _

"Don't let it hit the-!" A hand was flung out in instinctive denial as he spoke, twisting forwards to take the impact. Heads look up at the half-finished order, but there's no understanding yet. He leaned further to the side.

Better to suffer a new wound from being hit with the arrow, than to allow it to hit a piece of connective technology and take in, destroy, or upload any important data.

But this wasn't the straight-firing arrows from myths, old books, or comics. This was a specially-crafted piece of intricate, deadly artwork with the compact metal skin of a killer, designed for hands fast as a hurricane's gale and agile as a marlin in seawater.

The projectile darts a hair's breadth of a length from the top of his head, the force rushing past so close he felt the wind that kicked up in a tunnel around it brush skin, and then it slammed into the command desk behind him like a miniature comet. Agent Hill swore, reaching out a hand to rip out the arrow before it could deploy, but it's too late already and she knows it, her fingers falter for a split second-

A sharp _click, _and the arrow self-activated; the action let the metal prongs sink into the USB outlets like a knife through butter, and there's just enough time to watch as the bridge's numerous screens flickered and convulsed with data streams as the firewalls activated, then fell apart, and then everyone's screaming as the Helicarrier abruptly, jarringly, _tilts._

The hacking has done its horrifying job. Engine 1 had been shut down.

"Sir, we've lost all power in Engine 1, what are your orders?," the earpiece blared out in a rush of static. To his credit, Agent Sitwell's voice did not waver at the statement, though it was clear from the dazed tone that the loss had shaken him.

"It's Barton, he's onboard and he took our systems out. He's headed for the Detention Level now, whatever you do, do _not _let him let that damn alien out. Does anybody copy? This is a direct order to all available S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, _do not let Barton get in the Detention Level!_"

* * *

The lower equipment room had long since gone silent once the Hulk had unceremoniously departed, but Natasha still felt a sickening sense of lingering unease and sharp, prickling fear as she rocked back and forth, fingers clutching the handles of her knives so hard the pallid skin of her knuckles turned bone-white in the dim lighting. Her face now held several thin, sticky salt lines from a brief, unpleasant burst of silent crying, and, in irritation at the obvious show of physical weakening, she wiped the offending marks away with her sleeves and left shoulder, unwilling to relinquish her hold on the knives here in the dark.

A moment's all she can spare to take in a deep breath and compose herself, but it's all she needs to regain enough emotional control to respond to Fury's voice over the communications network.

"This is Agent Romanov," she said sharply, "I copy. Heading to intercept Barton now."

Pulling herself to her feet in one fluid motion, she hid her knives in her sleeves for quick, easy access and took off in search of her quarry.

He had helped her once. It was time to repay him once more.

* * *

The air down here was rife with the smell of burnt metal and wiring, but the air was not the problem.

The problem was that _the entire damn airship was tilting. _Steve in particular had been rather rattled by the sudden change in surface stability, and Tony would totally need to remember to call him out on his surprised shout of "Stark, we're losing altitude here, so could you _hurry it up a little?!_" later on.

If they survived, that is. At this point, Tony was more certain of the possibility of J.A.R.V.I.S. deciding to program his suit to dance the cha-cha every time he sneezed.

Fighting off the urge to make a more callous remark, he managed to force out, "Yeah, I kind of _noticed,_" before his mouth could offer up a few of his rather extensive cursing vocabulary, and began the long, arduous process of pushing the rotors with help from the booster-rockets in the foot coverings of the suit. With a little luck, and a backbreaking amount of persistence and applied strength, the engine could be restarted by hand. _  
_

The rotors take off with the help of a firm push, and for a few moments, it seems as if, just perhaps, this one important thing will be successfully fixed.

Then the speed picked up like the terrifying formation of a tornado, the boosters in the Iron Man suit glowing increasingly brighter from steadily rising internal temperatures as the onscreen readings in the inside of Tony's helmet grew frenzied with incoming data.

_Dammit, the cooling system's not working! _

Steve, on the other side of the situation, was facing an unpleasant problem himself: even when being shot by the assault rifle, the men just kept coming, as if programmed to fight until shot to pieces. He wasn't fond of his current position, firing at men who weren't even in their right mindsets, gunning them down like acres of grass under a lawnmower, but he couldn't afford to stop. Too much was at stake to give mercy to those who wouldn't do the same in turn.

Unfortunately, his grim determination was not quite a match for the taxing of his body. Sweat had been steadily dripping down from his dampened hair and forehead, dribbling down his face into his eyes in salty, stinging droplets, and there was only so many times that one could blink them away before one or two finally managed to land.

A swear escapes, loud and vulgar and something that his long-gone mother would doubtlessly washed his mouth out several times with a bar of soap for, but the sound hardly registers in his mind as pain reverberated through his skull at the impact of salty sweat with his eyes. Hands reached up to rub at the irritated area as he blinked out of reflex, but the single moment of diverted attention's enough to cause the railing to slip free from his fingers.

_Oh, wait, no-!_

For a terrifying second, there's nothing but air all around him, nothing to grip and cling to, and he thinks for a gut-wrenching second that this is how Bucky must've felt when he took that damn plunge off the train into emptiness and the cold grip of snow and _gone gone gone_-

A sudden shock of rubber and copper wire brushes up against his fingertips, and before his brain can catch up with the rest of his body, he's reaching out, begging, hoping, praying, _screaming_-

Sooty, sweaty, bruised hands find the handhold and latch on wildly, nearly snapping the cable in two, but he's got it. _Got you.__  
_

But there's still screaming in his ears, loud and wild and desperate, even after he shut his mouth and started climbing, hand over hand, back upwards, and when he reached the top, the cold air seems to sink into his bones like the brush of long-melted snowflakes.

* * *

Thor had managed to use the brief window of opportunity presented by the arrival of the jet to escape from the Hulk's rage-fueled blows, but by no means did that mean he had been rendered inactive in the line of duty aboard the ship. The repeated disembodied cries of the people panicking and fighting spurred him on as one in particular, that of a man named Sitwell, who seemed to speak in a way vaguely reminiscent of Heimdall, informed him that Agent Barton was heading for the Detention Section as if pulled by a magnet, apparently intent on breaking out Loki.

As he hurried through the narrow passages and battered doorways towards his destination, the thunder god's grip on Mjolnir twisted in discomfort and unease. Would he have to fight the human? Granted, the man was under some dark magic enforced by the Mindgem, but he was still fully armed with a set of archery equipment that would leave even the Light Elves of Alfheim glowing with pride at the meticulous self-craftsmanship. He had been trained in the art of war as an assassin, capable of ambush and subtle strikes that would leave the enemy felled before a gasp of shock could even leave deadening lips.

_Humans are not fond of being struck by lightning. _His own people had proved rather hearty against it, if not burnt, singed, and left angered with varying degrees of damage to be dealt with by healers, but his human friends had shown him proof with numerous photographs and the use of their strange "computers" that mankind rarely dealt with electrocution well. Thus, smiting the man with Mjolnir to stop him from releasing his madness-afflicted adoptive brother was not a feasible option if his life was to remain whole.

_A slight tap, then? _He studied the large, flat head of his favoured weapon, noting the thick density of the star-forged metal, and felt a slight wince form at the thought of just how "light" even the smallest touch could be against a mortal's frailer body. Even the man Banner's other form of the Hulk, which he had been informed had nigh-indestructible skin and an extraordinarily high resistance to injury, had been felled to the floor with only a single swing of the mighty hammer connecting with his face.

The door to the Detention Section was wide open when he arrived, adding to his worry. _But where is the man Barton? Has he not arrived yet? Why is the door open, then?_

Perhaps the destruction onboard had damaged the electrical workings that he had found operated the majority of the doors in this airship, and thus the door had opened due to the malfunction. _Perhaps that's for the best. If I had to fight Barton, I could not guarantee his survival when up against me. _

Walking across the metal floor, the harsh neon lighting illuminated the sight that formed the summation of his current fears: Loki was poised before the inside of the Cage door, muscles tensed as if ready to spring out the moment an opportunity to escape presented itself, or, quite possibly, attack whoever might try and prevent such an escape. The catsuit wrapped around his body was in the process of latching several tendrils of its oil-like material onto the handcuffs, apparently to dissolve them, as the rings of constricting metal were slowly starting to seemingly disappear.

_No, that cannot happen...! _He ran forwards, intent on stopping Loki from leaving the Cage, the exclamation of "No, Loki!" tearing free from his lips instinctively.

Upon reaching the doorway, he lunged, knowing that his greater bulk and overall muscle mass would be enough to pin the younger god down and prevent him from getting free.

But there's nothing but air as he flew forwards; Loki, or rather, his intangible duplicate, vanishes like a malfunctioning photograph projection flickering in and out of focus, and there's only a split second to muster up both shock and self-disgust at falling for one of the basest tricks of their youth before he slammed gracelessly into the floor of the cell, Mjolnir slipping out of his hands to spin across the surface and stop a few feet away like an abandoned toy.

The shadows seem to slide off of the younger god like the reluctant disconnection of a clingy lover, the swath of tenebrosity that made up the catsuit curling possessively around the lean form as Loki seemingly melted out of the darkness behind the cell door like a ghost. His expression was almost sickeningly amused as he regarded his new fellow inmate.

Neatly sidestepping the hands that reach out to grab his ankles in a futile effort to drag him down, he stepped out of his temporary prison and the motion-sensing scanners activate, sealing the door shut and locking Thor inside. Slim fingers traced the contours of the Cage's control panel in a manner so gentle and considerate that the very act reeked of mockery, as a single digit rested against the large red activation button.

"_Really_, Thor? Are you ever _not _going to fall for that little trick?"

Staring back in abject horror, Thor found he had no proper answer to give.

* * *

The lower equipment room was a mess of dim cold blue lighting, casting everything in half-shadow and a rasping symphony of harsh breathing, the click of a gun being loaded and the hiss of an arrow notching into place.

Natasha inwardly swore as she peered carefully up from underneath the grate of the catwalk at her converted partner, watching as he walked alone, one hand gripping an arrow ready to fly at single glimpse of movement, the unnatural blue gaze sharp and wary, turning every which way for his target.

She reached in anticipation for her gun, mentally calculating the chance that she would need to use a bullet, versus the chance that he could be taken down with a blow to the head using the butt of the weapon. Another moment passes, and he still doesn't spot her yet; in turn, she seized the opportunity of pondering whether or not risking an arrow to the eye is worth moving into closer combative range, but the data is insufficient when she couldn't fully see what type of arrow is being used.

Although explosive arrows were more destructive than the standard blunt arrow, his electrical arrows functioned on a level similar to her own custom taser in terms of raw power...

_Does he have any of his boomerang arrowheads on him? _He didn't generally carry arrows equipped with the specialized return mechanism unless a mission required it, but it _was _possible...

_I need more data. _It was a risk she would have to take.

The air sang with tension as she slipped out from under the catwalk, gun held in a knuckle-white grip even as she forced her fingers to flick off the safety.

A sharp _hiss _rips through the air like tearing paper as the arrow's set, pulled back, and loosed all in a split second directly at her; dodging the projectile, she sprinted forward and yanked him off the catwalk by the feet, knocking the bow out of position even as calloused fingers clawed away in retaliation at the point of connection in an effort to make her let go. Consequentially, they fall down together in a tangle of twisting, pummeling limbs, throwing punches and kicks even as they got up and circled each other, once, twice, three times, analyzing one another, and then she took a risk and lunged, knocking the bow further out of reach. Neon blue eyes narrowed at the action, and the arrow salvaged is slid back into the quiver at his back as he pulled a knife free from a pocket, wickedly sharp and neat as a freshly-disinfected surgical scalpel.

Natasha looked at the blade glinting duly in the harsh light, hands gripping her gun tightly enough to leave marks on the skin. _Dammit. Plan B._

* * *

Thor was clearly enraged at being tricked into the glass prison like a small child with candy, Loki noted with dark amusement. It had so easy to lure him in and trap him that, in a way, he almost pitied his not-brother.

_Jusst how gullible are you, that you fell for one of the firsst trickss I ever learned, Thor? Did you learn nothing from our yearss of quessting? _

Perhaps it was indeed so. The thought was somewhat disheartening.

The train of thought was abruptly stopped when the thunder god suddenly slammed Mjolnir into the door of the Cage, the sound of glass breaking and cracking reverberating in a worrisome echo as a new spiderweb of thick cracks formed beneath the surface of the enchanted weapon's head. The room trembled for a moment, as if a moderate earthquake had occurred.

_The humanss won't be happy about_ _that, will they?,_ the symbiote mused as the cracks in the glass deepened, widening into miniature canyons.

_No, not at all. _

Clearly, the Hulk Cage was rather useless for its purpose of creation, if a single harsh blow could damage the glass so easily. The Hulk delivered such strikes like rain from storm clouds, and the humans expected it to hold up for an extended period of time? The blow he'd struck against the interior surface seemed all the more exemplary of the prison's unsuitability now.

A faint smile slipped into place as he leaned over the control panel, cold and death-seeped as the receding flesh of the lips of a corpse. Evidently, Thor did not remember who currently held power over the controls to one of the most dangerous places on the entire flying aircraft. _What a sshoddy ssensse of sself-presservation you have sstill. Perhapss we sshould do ssomething about that. Nornss know you won't take the initiative._

"The humanss think uss immortal," he spoke up, "Sshould we tesst that, Thor?"

The tanned face paled slightly as the words sank in. "Loki..."

_I am not that persson you ssearch for in thesse eyess, not anymore. Begging got me nowhere before, why sshould you be different? _The flicker of old pains and anger flared like witchfire as he stared at the childishly-worried expression on the other god's face.

_Why sshould I sspare you, when you left me to die? You let me drop, yet you expect the oppossite of me? _His palms ached with phantom soreness from an abandoned grip on Gungnir, the fingers that once longed for their tan counterparts to pull their owner to safety now poised to press the button that would leave their previous role reversed.

_Jusst one little pussh..._ A single application of pressure, a flip of a lever, and Thor would know what it's like to fall into death, unmaking, darkness...

_Sso very, very tempting..._ He could sense the seductive whisper of vengeance purring in his ears...

Of course, he would not actually _kill _his not-brother. Thor did not seem to ever have that kind of misfortune to plague him, and Loki knew that, despite being far more prone to violence than rational thought for the most part, he was still needed, valued,_ loved_ far too much to end his life this early.

Mother would cry if Thor died. He did not want that to happen. She had been kind to him, taught him magic, held him to vanquish his nightmares even after Thor had moved far away into his own bedchambers and Odin had deemed him too old for soothing.

She had loved him. If there was a single, honest, solid truth in the universe that a sentient, living being held him in pure affection aside from the one cradled within his own body, and, perhaps, albeit out of misunderstanding, Thor, it was that she loved him too. He did not want to ruin that with the blood of her beloved first borne child on his own damned hands for the rest of his life.

He knew that Thor would survive the fall, he did not have the horrific unmaking of the Void to catch and damage him when he landed. The thunder god had Midgard, and thousands of miles of air and water and land to help cushion his fall, and, thanks to the power of Mjolnir, he could also fly himself to safety. All he would need to do was break the glass to escape before the Cage hit the water, and he'd demonstrated such abilities earlier, surely it would not be _that_ difficult to remember to do...

Loki had not had such luxuries when he experienced his own descent. Thor held them all at his fingertips now, and he didn't even know it.

_I believe I owe you one fall, then. I don't like being indebted. _

"Don't worry your pretty little head, Thor," he muttered, "Falling'ss jusst like flying, except there'ss a more..._permanent _desstination in the end."

The panel sang promises of dizzying vengeance as he reached for the button.

"Please move away from there," came a sudden call from behind, and Loki turned around instinctively at the words, the symbiote warbling mentally in question as a thin, inconspicuous-looking man in a standard black suit and tie seemingly materialized from the shadows cast in the room. There's a large, ominous-looking gun held tightly in his hands, pulsing with energy like an unnatural heartbeat, and for a split second, Loki's reminded of the Mind Gem, beautiful and powerful and terrible all at once.

Moving a few feet away from the control panel to appease the human, he studied the man before him with a critical air, taking in the odd feeling around him. It took a moment to register exactly what that feeling is: _nothing. _The man's a living ghost, unassuming as the general "unique" knickknacks of an Midgardian office cubicle.

_How sstrange. He sstandss here with ssuch power in hiss handss, and yet he feelss sso very faint I could blink and misss him for a moment._

There's another feeling niggling away underneath like an inopportunely-placed stinging welt, and after a moment of concentration, a name bled out from the memories obtained from the Hawk: _Phil Coulsson. _

_Aah, sso we finally meet, then. _Perhaps this was the final piece of the terribly confusing puzzle that made up the humans' emotional attachments. This single man, as plain-clothes cooperative as one could get in this organization, and yet here he stood, unflinching and straight-backed as a soldier about to embark to war, as a linchpin of epic importance. This man, so dear to people on both sides of this conflict, was the perfect casualty requirement to spur the humans to their final limit before they snapped and finally fully mobilized for the Invasion.

"You like this thing?," the man called. "We started working on the prototype after you sent down the Destroyer. Problem is, they kept it so top secret that even I don't know what it really does, or what it's fully capable of. Do you wanna find out, then?"

The words, even spoken in the mildest, politest tone Loki has ever heard in this realm, were meant, unmistakably, as a threat. A polite and proper one, but nonetheless a threat. He could almost applaud the rather admirable effort.

Taking a moment to consider the offer, he mentally reviewed the images and information on the human body that he had gleaned from his converted personnel.

_The human heart iss the main point of worry for traumatic injury, but according the Hawk'ss memoriess of passt misssionss, ssurviving iss very difficult, **but** not actually imposssible. If I leave the trachea alone to prevent completely choking on blood and aim for the left ventricle, the organ'ss meat wall, being thicker than itss right counterpart, sshould be jusst thick enough to ssurvive impact and partially sseal itsself for a sshort time afterwardss..._

He simply had to aim...very, very, _very_ carefully. Was there anything here that could be used to act as a plug once a hole's been made in the punctured flesh?

The symbiote rippled in yellow-green contemplation. _We can alwayss sseal it off from the insside with magic...__  
_

_Excellent ssuggesstion. _

The decision thus accomplished, Loki nodded to the human and pulled a bit of magic from what remained of his reserves; a moment to cast an flickering illusion to confuse him, and he took the opportunity of incomprehension to teleport behind his quarry. Taking a breath in, he aimed, eyes narrowing automatically in concentration, and struck. The symbiote lunged forwards, tendrils twisting off his arms and forming a katana-thin blade that pierced through flesh and bone like a hot knife through butter, and the gasping, choking cry of pain and shock that bubbled up from the human was tinged with the unmistakable gargle of blood welling up to mix with saliva. A dull _thud _rent the air as the strange gun fell from pain-whitened hands.

Dimly, in the background, his hearing registered the horrified cries of his not-brother shouting a long, drawn out "Nooooooo!" as if the abject proclamation of denial would stop the apparent death, but that wasn't of any importance. It was too late to stop.

Blinking several seconds as he took in his grisly handiwork, he peered at the damage done: Coulson stood, impaled on the makeshift blade, pupils blown wide with agony and slowly-fading surprise, the prototype weapon abandoned on the floor and still faintly glowing.

The symbiote withdrew It's combined appendages with a sickening _sch__lurkk _sound, and the moment the last hint of sharpened tendrils pulled free of damaged flesh, he reached out and gripped the man, pulling him over to the nearest wall and propping him against it, letting out a small pulse of sealing magic flow down his arms to leak out of his fingertips into the shuddering body.

_It'ss not much, but it will keep him in thiss world until the humanss arrive. If they hurry up, that iss._

Loki stared unflinchingly as the human slumped down in a dazed heap, breathing rapidly as blood bubbled over thin lips. Pain-dulled eyes watched the god as he walked back to the control panel in quick, brisk strides.

"You're not...going...to win, you know," the man rasped out, blood dribbling faster from the effort, "You lack...conviction. I...can...see it."

He isn't worried that the man could see it, not in death. _I lack conviction in thiss crussade becausse I know it'ss desstined to fail. It'ss a fool'ss errand, headed by a madman ssent out by a bigger madman. What I lack iss vengeance. I lack a heart, for I have been informed all my life that thosse like me do not have them. But I have sstrength enough for thiss, even if it killss me. _

The god stared at the dying human, watching breath flutter like a bird with broken wings, and turned his attention to his not-brother. Thor stood in the Cage, still and quiet and a shade paler than normal from the horror he's just witnessed, but the blue eyes were frighteningly hopeful as they looked back at him.

He pulled the lever; the hatch underneath the Cage opened with a faint _hiss_, but those eyes _still_ look at him, still hoping, still thinking there's some chance that this is all just a terrible joke, an awful trick-

Loki hit the button with a clenched fist and watched, unblinking, the symbiote humming a mockingly mournful mental tune of pale blues and grey-whites, as the Cage fell, plummeting down through the sky like ruined wings dripping melted candle wax.


	8. An Act of Delinquency

**A/N: ****NOTE #1: Agent Coulson's "death" conversation with Loki has been liberally modified for plot purposes. Given that the Type 2 Prototype weapon doesn't seem to make a reappearance in the film after Loki was blasted clean through the wall with it by Coulson, I've decided to use it for the purpose of aiding the plot. It _will_ be important later, so please don't get annoyed at this odd little blip in the cinematic timeline.**

**NOTE #2: Given that the script (and what I can remember from the film itself) doesn't actually explain how Loki and the scepter get to the carrier that brought all the converted agents to the Helicarrier after stabbing Coulson and dumping Thor and the Hulk Cage out via gigantic airlock, I've added an extra scene to "fix" the apparent plot hole and give him and the symbiote a bit of reprieve before Phase 3 starts.**

**NOTE #3: I moved the final place for Coulson's vintage trading cards to what I personally think is a more...fitting place. I hope you don't mind too much.**

**NOTE #4: To prevent any possible confusion regarding the term, a _weregild _is/was an ancient form of reparation for injustices done by one or more people to another, usually in the form of precious metals (i.e. gold) or part of your livestock herds, or, if that wasn't possible and there was a lot of outcry, possible execution. It was arranged according to one's rank in its founding old world Germanic societies, so for someone of Loki's rank (former or otherwise, given that he was still technically a prince when he fell off of the BiFrost), he'd likely be wanting something pretty darn high up in the reparations list, and since he was raised in such a combat-oriented society, wanting an extreme form of vengeance against those who wronged you isn't exactly too far off the mark. After all, if the payment wasn't met, taking up a blood feud _was_ usually the next course of action...**

**DISCLAIMER: As usual, I own nothing of _Marvel _or Norse mythology, be it characters, places, pop cultural references, phrases, paraphrases, etc. I also do not own the reference to _BBC Sherlock. _Please don't hunt me down and draw and quarter me for my stories.**

**WARNING: Your daily dose of gore, foul language (including one unfinished "f" word), semi-graphic violence, dark/morbid humor, and, in this case, some quasi-spoilers for _Captain America: The Winter Soldier. _**There will be a depiction of death in this chapter (think of it as "death of a red shirt", since the character, from what I've managed to research, doesn't really play a very impacting role in the _Marvel _cinematic universe). This chapter is also a bit longer than usual.**  
**

* * *

The air in the lower equipment room stung with tension as they continued to tear and stab and swing at one another, flashes of blue eyes and blood-red hair flickering in and out of the half-light like candles in the wind. Punches and kicks and closed-finger jabs at pressure points were traded back and forth like oxygen for carbon dioxide. Fingers tightened into blunt fists and curled into claws with every swing at exposed flesh, aiming for whatever could be reached for the most damage. Breath came in harsh, shuddering gasps and huffs, stolen from the air like pearls with every opportunity seized.

Natasha hurtled forwards again, grasping a pipe overhead and using it for a point of stability as she kicked out with a booted foot, ramming the slim appendage into her opponent's face, the heel angled to prevent too much pressure from being inflicted on the nose. There was no sense in trying to prevent him from being attacked by S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, only to kill him by an over-application of force that would leave his nasal bones bursting through brain matter like a spoon digging through a bowl of wet oatmeal.

The man reared back at the blow, blood streaming freely from damaged vessels and bent cartilage even as he swung a fist at her in retaliation.

But the arm's grabbed and stopped in place, her feet digging into the ground as hard as possible to keep steady as she twisted the appendage sharply out of shape, contorting the limb into a grotesque approximation, and a low, guttural groan of pain escaped at the action; instinct overrode the pain for a brief, blissful moment, and he took action with his remaining arm, tossing the knife over to the free limb to allow for a series of rapid-fire messy slashes at Natasha, jagged flurries of movement trailing razor-edged metal through the air like streaks of disappearing and reappearing lead grey paint.

Concentration and meticulous visual tracking of the knife's movements helped Natasha to avoid the jabs and slices of the blade, but a stalemate was soon reached when her attacker realized that lashing out with the handheld weapon was all but entirely useless. Fingers clamped down as their arms interlocked, muscles straining with the effort of trying to shove pack the forceful pushing on each side. When the blade's forced down after throwing her weight abruptly forward, she took the opportunity of shock to lean forward and bite his wrist, forcing down teeth in a pressure-sealed application of over two-hundred pounds worth of agonizing force.

A cry of pain burst forth to accompany the blood welling up from the new wound, and the knife's dropped like a hot coal a split second later, unwillingly relinquished by spasming fingers.

Not missing a beat, the assassin lunged again, wrapping her legs around his neck, twisting her whole body in a concert of effort to flip her partner over and pin him down in an arm lock. The moment he slammed into the ground, slender hands seized his head on either side and forcefully shoved downwards, slamming him down into a nearby pipe with a sickening _crack. _

Blood trickled sluggishly from the new wound as he raised his head slowly up, looking at her with pain-dulled eyes, the unnatural blue flickering for a moment, threatening to fade out entirely as senses re-calibrated to the shock of the situation.

"Natasha..."

A moment of silence passed as the two stared at each other, twin echoes of harsh breathing and the distant hiss of pressurized water escaping from overhead pipes the only sounds in this dark underworld, and then everything went dark in a burst of agonizing pain as she hit him again, this time with the butt of her pistol and a cocked left fist.

* * *

Thor would admit, even if only to himself, that he was at an unnerving loss as to _what_, exactly, had gone so terribly wrong.

He had tried repeatedly to reason with his brother, trying in earnest to break through the wall of insanity and delirium that fogged the younger god's mind, but to no avail. The man was lost in a state of impenetrable madness, his rambling incessant, his eyes wild and too-bright, and his mannerisms frighteningly changed from how they once were. A horrifying scent of death and musky shadow, heavy as the stench of blood and rot from the battlefield, seemed to permeate the air around him, thick and heavy as iron chains. Hair once sleek and well-tamed now resembled a thorny wreath of sable briers, wild and tangled into a sea of countless knots like the pelt of a mangy wolf, and slender, nimble fingers had thinned down to the point where bones could be visibly noticed moving beneath the strange black ooze that clung relentlessly to his rail-thin form like a nightmarish second skin, and those eerily sharp _teeth, _bared in the starved, crazed grin of an angered wolf with lips pulled back into a warning snarl_..._

_What has happened to you, Loki? Where is the brother I once knew in this form so eerie and strange that you now wear like the gilded drapery of a monarch? Why did you do this?_

No answer came, save for the rampant pounding of his heart and the distant howling whistle of the wind picking up about the glass vessel he was currently trapped in, his only company being Mjolnir, the mighty weapon repeatedly flung every which way to crash into the thick wall and leave a blossoming set of growing cracks like freshly trodden snow. He thought of that strange set of teeth, widening and sharpening like the cracks in the glass, and a shudder raced across his skin in instinctive unease.

The dentition did not resemble any beast of lore that_ he_ had heard of, nor ever encountered. The teeth looked almost knife-like, bone-white with the canines sharpened into needle-point pricks, proudly held in that sickening rictus of a lunatic smile. Thor felt a shivering skitter of phantom motion run up and down his spine at the very remembrance of it.

But there would be time for such a worrying contemplation later. For the moment, he had a much more important subject to focus on: getting safely out of the Hulk Cage with Mjolnir without getting cut down to ribbons of flesh and bits of bone when he destroyed the glass to escape.

_Time to focus._

The air was humming with static, crackling with Mjolnir's residual energy as each burst of contact erupted into a miniature shower of luminescence and sound, white light spilling forth with each hit like the flare of candles in the dark. The world turned sickeningly, rotating and spinning like an out-of-control tilt-a-whirl carnival ride, and the sky was deepening to darkest grey by this point, rumbling ominously with power. He took comfort in the sight, feeling his powers rising in response, echoing the energy pulsing outside...

_Wait, can it be..? _

The buildup of power outside echoed like a mournful siren song, singing unceasingly, and he found himself yearning to answer it.

When the tumbling movements of the Cage dropped him again, he let himself fall to the "floor" provided by the wall now underneath him, landing feet first as he held out a hand in a silent call for his faithful weapon, willing the lightning outside to help channel the hammer's energy back to him.

Mjolnir flew back into his grip as if pulled by an invisible magnet, the leather handle locking seamlessly into place with the groves of his outstretched palm, and then he swung the juggernaut of power forth, pushing back with his feet at the same time as if leaping from a cliff. Outside, he can see the frighteningly close scenery of ground approaching beneath the glass prison, and he felt a sickening lurch in his gut at the brief thought spared for his would-be demise at impact with the hard surface from such a long fall.

The hammer slammed forth accordingly into the glass of the opposite side, taking him along for the ride, and he flew out into the open air in a maelstrom of shattered glass fragments and blood from newly made cuts. The sky's symphony hall of thick clouds burst apart in a supernova of noise, and then the heavens glowed a bright, dazzling blue, the barest wisps of puffy white clouds visible in scattered remnants all about.

The outside air's colder than the inside of the Cage, but the discomfort such a triviality caused could be ignored. Mjolnir had been wrenched from his grasp by the force of impact, bouncing away into the underbrush, and when he landed in an unkempt heap into the dirt and flowers of the meadow soon afterwards, he could only hope it hadn't been buried into the earth so deep that retrieval of his favoured weapon took an age and a half to undergo. There was not enough time for such a thing to do.

Brushing dirt and bits of torn grass from his hair, he pulled himself upright and got up off the ground, intent on finding his hammer.

* * *

Loki knew very well that he was quite possibly the farthest thing removed from an expert on the human race, but even he was rather certain that it really should not be possible to speak so politely and so easily when there was a great deal of blood clogging one's "windpipe".

But then, he inwardly conceded, Agent Coulson seemed so strangely ordinary that the defiance of the norm was not truly very surprising.

With Thor having just vacated the premises via a rather crude opened airlock, he pulled back the lever to close up the hatch again, the low _hiss _of the airtight seal realigning itself offering a welcome reminder that the damnable prison was gone, far, far away, and he and his other half were safe from the potential horrors of falling while trapped within like fireflies in a glass jar, doomed to die.

His not-brother, as far as he knew, was still trapped within it, but that was not a matter of importance. He would escape with ease, once he remembered to use the enourmous source of weather-controlling power that had been left in the Cage along with him as a sort of safety net. It might take a bit of time, but he would find the answer in the end.

Thoughts thus somewhat calmed for the moment, he turned away from the control panel and redirected his attentions to a more attention-grabbing matter.

Peering down at the shuddering form leaning haphazardly against the wall, already slumped halfway to the floor from pain and vertigo, he studied the thin face of the dying man, noting the rapid draining of what little colour could afford to be lost as ruby droplets bubbled up, spit out over and over in a spasming, choking rasp.

In and out, in and out, went the struggle for breath by the lungs in the lean chest, blood pooling under the sticky, slowly crusting white dress shirt, dampening the tie and the sides of the suit jacket with thickening smears.

"You're...gonna lose," came the low rasp, a gob of thick blood welling up to accompany it in a reflexive spitting gesture. "I c-can...see it."

_Hmm, perceptive, thiss one, aren't we?_

"Oh, _are _we?," he spoke quietly, watching a slowly widening trickle of blood drip down from a pale lower lip. "Tell uss why, then, if you deem it sso important to convey with what remainss of your sstrength."

"It's in your nature," the man said, eyes full of pain but nonetheless clear, levelling with his own with an air of oddly-placed calm, given his circumstances. "You're not...in this...to win."

Taking in the sight of the blood pooling again, choking off another vital breath, the god felt a rare, unnerving stir of pity. _Even with blood crusshing every other word he forcess out, he** sstill** sspeakss with glib and gentility. Anyone elsse would be ussing their lasst wordss to cursse me to whatever damnationss their fading brainss might concoct in the grip of death, or even try to call for help. Yet here he iss, alone and yet unafraid. _

"We don't know why you inssisst on sstating the obviouss, Agent Coulsson."

The pale eyes blinked at him, surprise briefly overriding the pain. "W-What?"

"You think uss at a dissadvantage, don't you? You sstated ssuch a thing before. You ssaid that we lack conviction. Even now, with your heroess sscattered, your flying fortresss creaking in pain while it fallss from the ssky, and you yoursself lying here, choking and ssputtering on your own blood, you _sstill_ believe it. _We _can ssee it in _you_."

There's a sort of delight in the words that, at the back of his shared mind, he's certain was somehow wildly inappropriate for the current situation, but it's just so terribly _interesting. _Even now, at the edge of expiration, his Thread of Fate barely clinging together, the human still believed in it. That sort of belief was the sort that moved mountains, won or lost wars, birthed and slaughtered whole nations, and to see it in this one man, shining like a newborn star, he could not help but be amazed, and, even reluctantly, an ever so slight bit impressed. _  
_

_You are indeed the linchpin to thesse people, and yet you think not of your own importance, but that of otherss. How very odd. _

He leaned forward, jagged strands of ink-dark hair brushing carelessly against the bloody lapels of what was an unfortunately ruined suit. Thin lips pressed close to a pale ear, and the man jerked visibly away in surprise as not one, but two voices spoke up in perfect unison, issuing words forth like smoke from a fire lit deep in the woods. The sound was almost eerie, the words almost seeming to float in the air in a manner reminiscent of the ice crystals of a blizzard, lovely and underhandedly deadly.

"You ssaid we lacked conviction, Agent Coulsson. But conviction of thiss fallacy of conquesst itsself iss tantamount to the sstability of fire in the howling wind. We hold no interesst in ruling a realm sso wild, sso varied, sso immenssely, sstubbornly different that they cannot even govern_ themsselvess_ under a ssingle ruler. It iss...not _quite_ to our tasstess."

A grin formed, twisted and shadow-tinted, some distant kin to the smirks he had worn so often in youth after a particularly satisfying trick had been done; the symbiote hummed in sweet and terrible glee as It regarded the slowly drying dribbles of rich scarlet blood with an almost childish hunger.

"No, Agent Coulsson, we do not want to rule you. We want ssomething more palatable for our dessiress. We want _blood._"

The man's eyes widened in veiled horror, and the sight of it drew forth a dark chuckle. "No, no, not yourss," the god amended in grim amusement. _Though we wouldn't object to a good sstrong drink. Thiss throat iss parched from all thiss talking._

"We want _their _blood, they who hurt uss, ussed uss for ssport, for entertainment of their filthy, damnable rankss, forced to crawl like a wounded dog to their _jeering_," he spat out, "We want them raw, we want them torn to piecess, crying futilely for the _thing _they call their masster, we want their blood to fill the sstreetss and paint the land itsself a thoussand sshadess of red with their desspicable gore. We want them...to know...the ssick ssweetnesss of their beloved _pain_."

He clenched his hands into fists, drawing himself back to the situation with the brief stinging of new, shallow crescent moon cuts into flesh, the tiny injuries healing over within seconds as the symbiote flowed across the minuscule tears for automatic repair and relief.

"We want them _dead_," he said, the words tinged with the horrible sweetness he ached to shower upon the incoming aberrations, "Your people ssimply provided uss with the meanss to do sso."

Taking a breath in, Loki drew back from the cooling body, watching the eyes that had been so politely attentive. Now they were slowly glazing over, but the spark of stubborn life in them remained, seemingly unwilling to give up and flicker out of existence.

"Why...?," came the sputtering question, with those wide, still-observant eyes looking at him as if he were a particularly difficult-to-place puzzle piece. There was no heat behind the question, no well-deserved barb or edge of disgust. It was simply a question, offered in that incomprehensibly polite tone of voice, and the simple, unfettered curiosity in it was enough to warrant an answer.

"Why, then, did we go to all thiss trouble? Why have them go _here_?" Thin lips curved upward into a smile, tinged with old pain and more than a little madness.

He considered the questions for a moment, pondering how to answer.

_Becausse I wassn't sstrong enough to end their crueltiess by mysself, and paid the price for it. Even now, I am not sstrong enough on my own. _

_Because they are like locusstss, plaguess of death, devouring worldss and livess alike to sslake the hungering lusstss of the afterlife and itss ruler._

_Because I am sselfissh, and I know it, becausse I wass denied the power to prevent their damnation of me. I want them dead and dying at my feet, choking on their own blood and clawing for breath, bodiess mangled beyond repair for what I ssuffered at their handss. I will take no reparation for my agoniess in mere gold, I want my weregild paid in full with their corpssess piled in mountainss and the sstench of their defeat hanging overhead in bloodied sskiess for an eon...!_

But the man was slipping away again, blinking languidly as another bubble of blood, smaller this time, burst against the corners of his mouth like a tiny dying star. Loki decided to finish the conversation and leave, before the humans searched the area and tried to ineffectually shoot him again. The symbiote still desired to find food, and, given his own hunger pains, he wasn't disagreeing with It.

Taking in a breath, he offered what answer he could give, wincing inwardly as the words dug barbs into his mouth during their escape. It didn't matter, truly, if to speak this answer was painful, because truths often were. If the only man around to hear it was on the verge of death, who was to truly know? He would likely ignore it as a pain-induced feverish hallucination, and be none the wiser.

"Becausse," he said quietly, "ssometimess the world doessn't need only heroess to fight the monssterss. Ssometimess what the world needss to fight againsst what lurkss in the dark _iss_ another monsster."

He stepped back, watching for a scant moment more, and then turned to leave.

The air was silent, and the gurgling gasps grew a bit quieter as he drew away. The man would live, his magic had made certain of it, but for now, he had to depart before he was discovered.

A slight mental nudge from within redirected his attentions while halfway to the door; turning in response, he asked mentally, _What iss it? I thought we had done what wass needed here. _

_Then why not take the sstrange device the human had with him? It iss sstill there. He will have no usse for it now. Too much pain._

Looking back at the abandoned weapon, he scrutinized the sleek lines of the body, the thick rectangles of pulsing amber in the sides, the surface black as the pitch of a dead bonfire. The air around the weapon hummed with an insidious energy, throbbing with an enticing alien power that whispered of flame and promises of destruction.

_Can we eat it?_

_I don't think it will tasste very palatable, but why not? We need to conssume ssomething, anyhow. _

An ignited spark of melted-butter-yellow delight at this was enough of a positive answer for him to reach out and grasp the bizarre weapon; upon contact, the object thrummed with a harsh, pounding pulse, energy racing beneath his fingertips like a the churning of a rain-swollen river beneath a low-hanging bridge, and the symbiote promptly seized It's opportunity for a meal, tendrils springing up from the back and arms of the catsuit to ensconce the weaponry prototype within swaths of glistening sable.

The low pained groan from the other side of the Detention Section dimly registered to the two of them that Coulson, still alive despite the terrible pain, had apparently been coherent enough to recognize that his organization's experimental weaponry was in the process of being forcefully assimilated. But there was nothing he could have done about it now; his injured state left him unable to so much as move away from the wall, much less attempt to pry the potential food source away.

The Type 2 Prototype having since vanished beneath the sea of sable, Loki found the experience of absorbing an inorganic weapon was much different from that of an organic material, such as the eyeball back in Stuttgart. The sharp, coppery tang of the metal components left bursts of scorching rusty scarlet and pinpricks of shimmering bronze, while the fuel cell left a thick, cloying, almost honeyed aftertaste hinting of molten amber, the taste being somewhat refreshing after the initially unpleasant, rather burnt flavour, somewhat reminiscent of charred meat, dragged hunks of slate-grey and the curdling yellow-white of bleached bone across the mental landscape.

_Not bad, _the symbiote murmured mentally, a thick cirrus of sable neatly carving slivers of metal off the top surface like slices of well-done meat._  
_

_Not bad at all, but we need ssomething to wassh it down with..._

After a moment to savour the sensations washing over their shared mind, the god pulled reluctantly away, watching in a detached, dimly pleasant haze as the last of the Prototype weapon was dismantled and devoured, vanishing into a gaping, writhing tunnel of glistening ebony tendrils with a somewhat unsettling _schlurrrkk _sound. The feeling of euphoria caused by their first "proper" meal since arriving on this little blue rock was exquisite: a floating, fluttery, silken sensation interwoven with a welcome flush of warmth suffusing his limbs amid rising shades of blooming custard-yellows and poppy-bright oranges. _  
_

A pained, guttural cry arose from the far back of the room, clawing free of bloodied lips with a considerable amount of strain, and he knew that Coulson had recognized the full disappearance of the weapon.

He wondered, somewhat worriedly, how long it would take before the humans finally arrived. It _had_ been some time now since he had dropped Thor down into the ocean...even in an emergency situation such as this, surely they were not _that _unorganized as to ignore the lack of reports coming back concerning one of their own Agents, an experimental weapon, an emotionally-volatile thunder god claiming to be their ally, _and_ a prison break...

_Time to go, then. We've idled here more than long enough to be behind sschedule now._

Their meal thus devoured with an almost surgical-level eradication of any remaining pieces, the symbiote retracted It's tendrils, silently flattening and smoothing back into place as It let out a mental croon of maple-gold fulfilled indulgence, and the warmth spread further, flowing across the whole of their vessel like the heat of a hot bath upon aching muscles. A sense of innate satisfaction and enlivenment bloomed in the wake of the surge of energy, and he turned and walked back to the entryway, footsteps no longer hindered by the faint tremors of hunger-induced shaking.

Pressing an ear to the door, he listened for the approaching footsteps signifying any incoming humans, but the lack of telltale thudding gave off the dismal impression that no one was coming, at least not yet. He backed away from the door, ignoring the flicker of annoyance the lack of sound aroused, and turned to study both the door and the walls surrounding it, wondering how much sound could be generated by damaging the structure.

_Perhapss we could tear it apart to attract their attention...?, _the symbiote offered.

_Excellent ssuggesstion._

That earlier warmth fluttered again, stronger this time, coming in throbbing, heated pulses like the tidal movements of distant tropical waters, and with it, spikes of increasing energy, climbing upwards in temperature until it seemed to balance precariously on the knife point's edge dividing pleasure from pain. The symbiote coiled tendrils around his arms and hands in nervous anticipation, pressing increasing layers of glistening sable round and round in a reinforced protective barrier. The heat radiated outwards, coursing through shaking arms as power raced over the catsuit's surface in thin, branching streams of violently glowing amber, racing through each arm like a cyclonic internal tunnel of conflagration-

_BOOM. _White-hot bursts of energy tore out from shaking palms like the riotous blast of a pair of live grenades, shredding through the air with a violent screech of sound as the door and surrounding wall were bombarded with boiling hot energy, melting and warping the metal into a gaping hole radiating outward with wild lacerations that left the ceiling trembling and the floor gouged out several inches deep. Sparks hissed and spit as they dripped unevenly from torn open circuitry and wiring in the new openings in the walls, and a new spray of thick chunks of rubble and plaster now littered the floor. The air had been super-heated by the blast to the point that, without the safety provided by his other half and his magic, Loki felt grimly certain that he would likely have collapsed. As it was, the sensation had been blocked from being potentially dangerous, having instead been rendered to little more than an irritating, burning itch, and a wave of internal gratitude was silently offered for the support.

Both god and symbiote surveyed their handiwork, taking in the sight of the newly made destruction with a considering air. _If **that** doessn't get their attention, they are indeed a hopelesss lot. Even the **dead** would have heard thiss ssquall._

Stepping over the rubble, he slipped through the ruined wall and into the portion of the airship beyond it.

_Time to get back to work._

The symbiote flickered in questioning mental whirls of robin's egg blue. _Can we get ssomething elsse to eat on the way?_

_How are you sstill hungry after what we jusst conssumed? _Incredulity sprang forth in mild surprise. They had just absorbed an entire advanced piece of experimental weaponry roughly equal to half of their current body size, yet It _still_ wanted more right now?

_Want ssecondss, and you ssaid we could sstill look for food after esscaping..._

Whatever faint dregs of argumentative spirit could be mustered were easily crushed into oblivion by the amusement that bubbled up at the one-track thought. _Alright, I did promisse. Perhapss the humanss won't notice one of their lessser perssonel going misssing in all thiss chaoss..._

* * *

Fury was not having a good day, and the knowledge of it hurt like the new migraine he'd developed in the past several hours. There were people dead, dying, missing, or panicking all over the Helicarrier, he hadn't heard a report back from Agent Coulson regarding the state of the Detention Section, Agent Barton had been apprehended by Agent Romanov but, from what he could glean from her, was currently still about as stable as an active volcano, and there was now a great deal of dead bodies and converted personnel to deal with when the day was over.

_Sometimes I really hate this job..._

He looked up at the few working viewscreens remaining on the bridge; fortunately, this included the camera monitoring the Detention Section. Unfortunately, the Detention Section now included a large, raw-looking tear in it due to the entry door and an impressive part of the surrounding walls being completely torn apart into a jumble of metal, plaster, and broken wiring-

The Hulk Cage was missing.

The single visible eye widened in shock and horror at the gaping hole in the room where the Cage had previously been, the hatch now swinging lifelessly back and forth like a bladed pendulum over an open pit.

Agent Coulson had been sent down there with the Prototype 2 weapon. The Cage was missing, and the man had not reported back.

_Dammit. I don't get paid enough for this._

Taking his gun from its holster, he headed toward the Detention Section, knowing that Agent Hill would keep the bridge from collapsing in his absence.

* * *

The port side of the airship was, quite possibly, currently his most hated place on the planet, Tony mused as he continued to spin round and round in Engine 3, pushing repeatedly to restart the rotors. Fortunately, it seemed as if the rotors were now in working order, spinning properly at a steady, rapid pace, as the Helicarrier had, slowly but surely, began to right itself again, leveling out to into a balanced position.

_If I have to do this any longer, I'm asking for a scotch when I get down from here. _The cooling system of the suit was a veritable godsend in the heated space of the Engine, keeping sweat from appearing and dripping down into his eyes in such a dangerous situation.

"Cap, I need the lever now!," he called down, pressing himself against the hulking blade of the fan. "This thing's picking up like no tomorrow, throw it!"

A sharp, tinny shriek crackled through the wind battering the speakers as Steve called up, "Hold on, I need a minute here!"

"Dammit, Rogers, this thing's going to hit subsonic Mach speed here, I mean it! Unless you want me shredded like your morning Wheaties, _I need the lever, now!_"

Taking in a breath, he angled himself further away from the rotors before letting go, watching in satisfaction as the blades spun independently. _Got it._

Unfortunately, he hadn't quite managed to fully leave the space between rotors, and the one behind him slammed sharply forward, crashing into both the Iron Man suit and the man inside it.

"Oh fu-"

Before the epitaph can even get free, the world tilted nauseatingly, jarring his sense of perception as his body was abruptly tossed about like a smoothie component thrown into an activated blender.

* * *

It had taken him some time, but Steve had finally managed to climb up the loose cable, grasp the railing, and haul himself upward, despite being unable to prevent a grimace from forming as the last of the remembered screams began to fade from his ears. Bullets whistled unnervingly close as they shot close to him, hindered only by risking falling again by leaning back out of the way.

Reaching out once he got close enough, he seized the lever and yanked down as hard as he dared; with a low, creaking groan, a vent opened up in Engine 3. Tony hurtled out of the provided exit as if shot from a cannon, dropping and halting in place several times due to the newly acquired damage to the now visibly battered Iron Man suit. The metal was now dented and scratched in several places, sparking faintly in one connective chink on the left side, and the rocket boosters in the feet portion of the suit were flickering every so often like a faulty light bulb. Steve resisted the urge to wince at the sight; even if the man wasn't someone he personally got along with, this was not something he'd wish for even in a nonlethal circumstance.

Tony flew forwards, heading for him, but the telltale _click _of a gun being reloaded and aimed drew attention back to one of the converted men, who apparently was still uninjured enough to wield a weapon. Automatically, Steve stepped farther out of firing range, reaching for his shield, but then the man's neon-bright blue eyes widened in almost comical shock when Tony slammed into him in a full-body tackle, knocking him into nearest wall with a sickening _crash._

Hurrying over, he took in the sight of the now unconscious man propped against a pile of rubble, the gun having flown out of his hands, landing at the edge of the opened wall, teetering over the brink. Instinctively, he emptied the ammunition chamber and kicked it sharply off, consoling himself that, even though it would land in the ocean, it couldn't fire off since it was bereft of any ammunition, most marine life would likely ignore it since it wasn't edible, and the Helicarrier was far enough away from the mainland that it was less likely to end up caught in a trawling net.

A low groan of pain drew his attention away, and he took in the sight of Tony, sprawled gracelessly over the floor. A series of curses, somewhat muffled by the suit helmet, erupted as the man rolled over in place, clearly exhausted and in no small amount of discomfort.

Steve couldn't resist emitting a sigh of relief. They were both alive, Engine 3 was back in operation, and the converted men on the port side had been either subdued or eliminated.

_Not bad for the little guy from Brooklyn and the man in the souped up tin can. _The thought was enough to warrant a somewhat hysterical laugh.

"What's so funny, Cap?," came the low drawl as Tony started, slowly, gingerly, to pull himself upright.

"Oh, nothing," and this time, a smile formed. Perhaps working with this insufferable enigma of a man wouldn't be _too _bad, after all.

* * *

Watching the humans aboard the Helicarrier during an emergency situation, he decided, was a bit like watching a school of fish try to evade the talons of an incoming bird of prey. There were bouts of continuous regrouping, hurrying back and forth, dodging, taking stock of their proximity to the immediate danger, and, as to be expected, a sizable amount of stress and panic. It was all too interesting to watch such a flurry of madness while at the same time standing apart from it.

Although, the god conceded inwardly, he doubted that the mortal populace aboard would behave even _slightly_ close to this level of partial calm, had they actually been able to notice him.

The sizable replenishing of previously depleted energy stores from their earlier meal had given Loki enough power to cast a camouflaging charm and the symbiote the opportunity to shift Itself to form a mirror-like covering, and thus they had gotten to test a new and immensely useful ability: invisibility, or rather, bending and distorting the light hitting their shared form to such an extent that the human eye no longer could perceive them at first glance. So far, the illusion had held up rather admirably. While he had performed a similar form of magic on himself before for quests and, when required for a particularly intricate feat, several bouts of mischief, he had not done so with a proper accomplice, and the novelty of it was rather amusing.

He ducked and wove in and out of the surging mass of people, scanning the labels above each door-frame. _We need to find Banner'ss lab and retrieve the sscepter. With any luck, the humanss will not have moved it yet..._

Despite his loathing for the accursed object that left him shackled to a delusional, merciless creature and an army of mindless, bloodthirsty drones like a dog chained to a post, he knew he still needed it for a while longer if the game were to reach a satisfactory conclusion. The Mad Titan would doubtlessly be angered if he was out of proximity to the unholy weapon, and that would not end well where he and his other half were concerned.

Unfortunately, evoking a tracking spell on it was useless, given that the Mindgem's own disruptive energies trumped his own through both sheer terrifying strength and an unsettling form of apparent sentience. For now, he had been reduced to finding the scepter while traveling on foot, and the lack of progress made thus far was extraordinarily irritating.

Taking in a deep breath the steady his simmering anxiety, he kept walking, peering into open doors as he went, but the lab was not yet in sight. The symbiote moved minutely against shared skin, brushing and stretching languidly against the inside of the catsuit like thousands of tiny downy feathers, and he took a moment to let the sensation of the subtle caress sooth his increasingly frayed nerves.

It was a novel feeling indeed, to be freely offered such a luxury, and he doubted he would ever grow weary of the warmth that it brought.

Peering into yet another open hallway, he felt the trickle of unease increase to a stream as the lab failed to come into view. _Damn. Where iss it, for Nornss' ssake?_

_Don't know, but can we eat yet? _The symbiote, at the very least, did not seem to be uneasy about the potential for horrific punishment, and far more interested in the only slightly less important present issue of procuring another morsel to consume. Given the amount of energy expended to help keep up the continuous illusion, this was a sentiment both to be expected, and shared.

He wondered vaguely if he should feel annoyance at such a blatant dismissal of the grim promise of psyche-shattering pain, but reasoned that his other half simply did not feel threatened, and, in horrifically beautiful truth, why should It? Thus far, nothing It had encountered with him had proven to be a direct, long-term, proper danger, save for the Other and Thanos, and, given the symbiote's dislike of their "employment" and It's earlier enthusiasm concerning the prospect of devouring those that insulted, attacked, or generally proved hostile towards Itself and It's host, the concept of accepting a punishment from those It shared disdain for was, for all intents and purposes, completely inconceivable. It would tear the offender apart, choking, gouging, clawing away with savage vigour, and leave nothing but a tattered, bloodied pile of guts and gristle too filthy to even _consider _eating, rather than bend to the will of someone wishing to do injury to Itself and that whom It considered It's own.

The thought was almost bone-achingly comforting.

Scanning the remainder of the hallway, he wondered if procuring a quick bite of food could still be established before continuing the search for the scepter. Even with the weapon still dangerously out of reach, his other half _had_ performed admirably, and he knew that a quick tidbit was not likely to be missed in such a large facility during all this frenzied activity...

_Yess, we jusst need to find a human that won't be eassily misssed..._

The sound of incoming footsteps drew his gaze away from an open doorway and instead to the center of the hallway; unlike the hurried, scattered movements of S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives hurrying to their emergency positions while grabbing as much important data as they could afford, the approaching footfalls were calm, steady, sharply coordinated, and suspiciously heavy, as if the owners were carrying a great deal of additional weight.

_The Hawk'ss perssonnel?_

_Do they have the sscepter with them? _

_No, they don't... _Unease heightened at the realization. The aura so distinct of the Mindgem's horribly familiar blue enlightenment was markedly absent from the humans approaching; instead, the scent of incoming metal, boot rubber, sweat, and thick, stain-resistant uniform fabric came wafting forth in an invisible cloud of odours. The symbiote drew back in rolling, churning waves of greyish-purple mental disgust at the bombardment of sensation, and the god resisted the somewhat plebeian urge to wrinkle his nose in shared distaste.

The men who came into view looked somewhat similar, but the uniforms were not of his minion's designation, nor that of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s favoured dark blue combat gear or sharp suits with concealed guns.

Something was wrong, and terribly so.

Flattening himself against the nearest wall, he stared in silent scrutiny as he took in the sight of the gathered personnel. Though they wore several articles of clothing declaring an allegiance to S.H.I.E.L.D., their body language did not speak of the panic or worry common of those trapped onboard. In an almost eerie contrast, despite maintaining the alert, wary stance of their fellow mortals, underneath it was a distinct _hollowness_, an absence of true worry, as if reassured they would come out of the situation unscathed. Sharp eyes darted back and forth in silent communication, and every one held a gun in a manner of frightening comfort.

_Who are they?_, the symbiote rasped mentally, a questioning pulse of pale orange shimmering into being.

_I don't know, but they aren't going by the ssame agenda their fellow humanss here are, if their sstancess are anything to go by. _

_Are they part of the one-eyed one'ss group?_

_No, too large to be part of the Avengerss' little band of the losst and the damned, and the men here all wear the ssame garmentss. Thesse oness are different, very different._

Pressing himself against the wall to avoid making contact with a somewhat ominous-looking gun strapped to the nearest man's back, Loki scanned each face, gathering as much data as he could.

Scars indicating former combat experience; deep-set facial lines from long-term exposure to harsh weather and wind; eyes hard and cold, displaying no outward emotion to potential enemies; steady, easy breathing, no unease or sign of being emotionally compromised at the situation...

_Mercenariess? Ssoldierss of ssome kind, certainly, but not sstandard isssue from thiss organization, they belong to a different faction..._

_Sspiess?_, the symbiote offered, shifting through the god's vocabulary and memories for an appropriate word to use.

_Perhapss..._ He had never wanted to use the Mind Gem's horribly beautiful power before, despising the blanketing, numbing, subservient effect he had observed that the jewel had on exposed minds, but in this particular case, he thought perhaps, if only once, the ability to read the minds of others could be desirable on hand.

These were new, unexplained pieces, wild cards in a game already so unstable it could crack and fall apart like glass if pushed in the wrong direction. He did not know what they wanted, why they were here, or what they could do, save for the potential for physical violence evidenced by their gear, and an uncontrollable force here was dangerous. He did not want additional components if they could not be accounted for and properly utilized, and these men clearly were rats in the system.

One way or another, they had to go.

Watching silently as the men dispersed back into the surrounding hallways, taking up the guise of their fellow operatives, he looked for a potential target.

_Even if it'ss only one, it'ss sstill one **lesss **of them. _

_Good for uss, not good for them,_ the symbiote agreed.

Sharpened teeth flashed in a wolf's predatory grin as he stalked forward, answering the siren call of the hunt.

* * *

The Detention Section was almost completely silent when he arrived, and it took a great deal of meticulous attention to what little sound remained to reveal that, somehow, impossibly, Agent Coulson was still alive.

Running over the dying man, Fury took in the dismal sight of the faintly shuddering body, torn fabric, and a face pinched and paled by slow agony. The fist-sized wound in the man's chest was a dark, gaping chasm, staining the surrounding fabric dark with dried blood.

"S-Sorry, Boss," he rasped out, "They got rabbited, I...couldn't...s-stop them."

"Just stay awake, understand?," he said quietly, keeping his eyes level with the other man's. "Stay awake, that's an order_. _EYES ON ME!"

Pulling his earpiece out, he spoke into the comm. "Medic, now! Agent Coulson's been injured, get down here _now_."

"No, I'm...afraid I can't...do that, too late for it," came the half-choked reply, and with it a grimace of a smile, tinged with blood that can't afford to be lost, "I'm all...clocked out here. Time to...turn in."

"Not an option, Agent Coulson," Fury muttered back, pressing a hand to the injury and still knowing with a sickening certainty that it's too late, far too late. "You hear me? Don't you_ dare._"

Another pained smile; a thin trickle of blood dribbled down the corner of the thin mouth. "It's okay, Boss," -and how horrible is the situation, when the one dying is the one better at comforting?- ,"You and I knew...this...was never...g-going...to work...if they didn't have something...to..."

He trailed off and looked away, the blood tracing a slender line past his chin, down his neck, disappearing into the depths of that immaculate white shirt collar. A sigh rent the air, a feeling of blessed relief from the physical torments of a dying body becoming, for a moment, auditory in a sound sweet and sad as a wreath of freshly plucked daisies.

Fury looked on, staring silently at the good, dead man, and continued to look on as the medical team arrived on the scene.

* * *

The intercom crackled with static as the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. spoke up. Automatically, all available Agents turned their attention to the sound, hoping for a sign of increasing fortunes.

"Agent Coulson is down, I repeat, Agent Coulson is down."

Agent Hill, sitting with an ice-pack balanced on one knee while being treated for the gash on her head, got up as the words gurgled through her headset, stood up abruptly and, without a word, began to head for the Detention Section.

All the while, the headset crackled as words dripped out, dizzying and worrying as colourless gas, and she felt a sickening sense of disorientation.

"Paramedics are on their way to you, Sir-"

"They're already here."

The world crashed to a halt and restarted again.

* * *

The port side was silent, still as a graveyard, save for the two figures standing side by side in the rubble.

"They called it." The intercom seems in that moment to be a giant, washing the Helicarrier and those aboard into an unending shadow, and cold seeped in with each syllable, reaching down into bone and leaving nothing but hollow frost in it's wake.

* * *

The bridge was a cold, numb place, the artificial lighting casting the huge room into harsh outlines.

It would have been preferable to the darkness, the hollowed rawness of the Debriefing room. Everyone that could be spared from their duties had gathered in the space, heads bowed, with the same expressions of dazed, numb shock on each devastated face. The air hung with a suffocating silence, pressing down upon each person like a sack of stones, stealing breath, crushing voices, and leaving each inhalation both a slight struggle and a sickening reminder that there was one less of their own now to experience the privilege of breathing.

Following Fury in pained silence, both Tony and Steve walked into the room as if in a daze, both men still battered and filthy as they had been on the port side. Steve held one hand on Tony's left shoulder in a grip strong enough to bruise, his stance automatically reverted to that of the war that never really was left. By the look of it, the billionaire had yet to either object, or notice, the vice-grip on his shoulder, given his slight lean against the taller body due to the pressure automatically exerted through walking within the confines of the damaged suit. The Iron Man helmet was held under one arm, scratches marring the surface.

Taking in the sight of each face present, the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. reached into a side pocket of his leather duster and pulled forth a thick parcel wrapped in bloodied fabric, throwing it onto the table in Steve's direction.

"These were found in Phil Coulson's jacket. Guess he never did manage to get you to sign them."

The package, caught and unwrapped with slightly shaking hands, revealed the bittersweet sight of a detailed collection of _Captain America _trading cards. Despite being peppered with blood, the pristine condition of the pieces was brutally obvious, each corner and border beautifully sharp, and all the images glossy, as clear and bright as a newly polished mirror.

Fury looked up at Steve, eyes glinting with a silent order. _Don't lose those. _

Blue eyes stared back, battered but unflinching. _I won't._

The deed done, he turned his attention back to those assembled. "We're dead in the water up here, and we've got no backups. Our communications, the location of the cosmic cube, Banner's gone, Thor's gone...I've got nothing for you. Lost my one good eye, but maybe I had that coming."

He took in a deep breath, composing his words carefully. "Yes, I admit, we were going to build a weapon's arsenal with the Tesseract. I never put all my chips on that number though, because I was playing with something even riskier."

Looking at the men and women before him with a steady gaze, he offered what little he had left in the way of hope. Perhaps, in this case, their last resort would be enough.

"There was an idea, Stark knows of it, we called it the Avengers Initiative. The idea was to bring together a group of remarkable people, and see if they could become something more, something _greater. _See if they could work together, so that when we needed them to, they could fight the battles that we never could ourselves."

A large, weathered hand traced the edges of the table, writing names of the long dead, calling on them for strength. "Phil Coulson died today, but he died believing in that idea, in the existence of heroes."

Tony abruptly stood up from where he had been seated beside Steve, pulling away from the shoulder grip. "Heroes don't exist, and even if they did exist, I wouldn't be one of them. I said so before, and I'll say it again, because if they were real, he wouldn't be dead right now."

Dark eyes looked at the others at the table for a moment, before he stalked off in silence.

Watching him go, Fury turned back to those listening. "Well, it's a bit of an old-fashioned notion."

* * *

It had taken him some time, and he had walked far out into the meadow by now, but he had followed the thrumming pulse of his lightning, his energy, his life essence, back to the source. The grass was waist-high now, thick with dew and wildflowers, and the sky glimmered blue like a molten sapphire.

Thor looked down, staring at the leather-wrapped handle thrusting up out of the thicket of yellow-green grass, and reached out a hand.

* * *

The sunlight streamed in like a swarm of mosquitoes homing in for fresh blood. Bruce opened his eyes, relief flooding him at the sight of his normal, smaller form, and took in the sight of his current surroundings.

From what was visible, he was lying in a pile of rubble, and, judging by the new gigantic hole overhead, he had arrived here by crashing through the ceiling after falling from the Helicarrier.

A low cough broke the stillness and silence, and he automatically turned his head in shock, eyes widening as they took in the sight of a single, aging man in a security officer's uniform, wearing a look of abject amazement on his face.

"You...you fell out of the sky, sonny."

Blinking as he took a moment to process such a statement, Bruce asked quietly, "Do you know if I, uh...Did I hurt anybody?"

The man laughed, a sharp, gruff sound a bit like a beagle's bark. "There's nobody around here to get hurt, 'cept maybe the ugly statue out front. That aside," he added, so serenely it seemed to almost be an afterthought, "you did scare the living hell out of some pigeons, though."

Bruce let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, shuddering as the air left his body in a soft _whoosh_. "That's...that's lucky." _Really, really lucky. _

The man shrugged in response, eyes calm and bright. "Or just good aim, either one works. You were awake when you fell, after all."

That didn't sound good. "What do you...wait, you mean you _saw?_"

He got a nod in reply, quick and blunt. "Yeah, the whole damn thing, right through the ceiling. Big and green and entirely buck ass nude, to boot. Oh, that reminds me," the man reached back behind himself, straightening up a moment later with a mass of fabric in his hands, "Here, you can put this on..."

The clothing's tossed down and caught with ease, and he pulled it on with a feeling of relief. "Thanks."

The security guard grinned slightly at him as he took in the change in appearance. "You know, I didn't think those'd fit you until you shrunk back down to a regular size fella, nice to know otherwise."

A moment passes before the man spoke up again, this time with a bit of honest curiosity. "Are you one of them aliens?"

"W-What?," he asked in slight surprise, thrown off by the question. _Monster? Yes. Monster from outer space? Not really._

"From outer space, an _alien, _you know?" The man gestured upwards sharply to help get his point across.

"No," he said quietly, "No, I'm not."

The man's expression flickered in thought for a moment, before his brow smoothed and he said bluntly, "Well then, son, you've got yourself a condition."

* * *

The quarantined area of the Helicarrier's medical room was quiet, sterile, and cast in half-shadows for additional privacy.

He wondered how long it would take before the straps broke. The chair was not too comfortable to begin with, and being bound in place with metal cuffs and leather straps was chafing at his skin.

A flash of blood glimmered slightly in the darkness... _No, _he amended, _Natasha's hair. _

Natasha was here. _Of course she is. _

They had followed each other for so long he still marveled that their shadows were not cast as one.

There was a blanketing, numbing fog, deep and thick as the slow but inevitable pressure of water when diving, all around. His mind felt sluggish, confused, every thought painfully jumbled as tangles of red yarn threaded and twisted into an endless string of knots. Every sense felt raw, stinging wildly, the ticking of the clock by the entry door loud as a ringing church bell, while the scent of antiseptic burned the inside of his nose. Blue sparks swam before his eyes, and he blinked instinctively as the fog threatened to surge back in like the incoming tide.

He wanted to get up. He wanted to get out of this chair, and then..._ What do I do? _

He had to find Boss, break him out, and leave with the rest of the men on the carrier waiting outside. No, that was wrong. He was supposed to sit here, and fight the fog trying to coax him back into the blue embrace of numbness and peace, because...

_...because...?_

Natasha had said so. His fogged, overactive brain latched onto the thought like a drowning man clinging to a floating wooden beam in a storm, clutching desperately to the offered object to focus on.

_Yes, Nat said to fight it. Just got...to...fight it..._

The independence was slipping away already, draining out like water through his fingers, and he cast about for the anchor he needed. Eyes darted back and forth, fingers flexing and straining, clawing at the metal bindings out of need, though for what, he was still unsure.

To escape? To focus on something? To calm himself?

Everything seemed both too hazy, and too sharply focused, tunneling like a psychedelic kaleidoscope. His pulse pounded in his ears, loud and thunderous and wild as the sea. His head swam with images, quick as a camera's flash, and every one felt like a bee sting, honey-bright and razor-sharp, cutting away at his clarity like tiny knives.

He turned his head and looked for a rock to adhere himself to in the sea of tempestuous _too much, too much_ and saw her.

Natasha was sitting beside him, her lean, spindly body curled into a ball, feet pressed delicately beneath her knees in the crouching position he knew from experience meant she was ready, if not willing, to spring off the seat and run if the situation escalated. Large, bright eyes stared at him, analyzing and slightly hungry, as if reassuring herself that he was there and not dead at her feet.

"Clint, you're going to be alright, you understand?"

He blinked, trying to grip the grounding sensation of the anchor more tightly. _Alright? But...I am alright...or am I not?_

The fog tugged insistently at him again, and he batted it away, trying to brush out the lingering blue cobwebs from their entanglement with his thoughts.

_Nope, definitely not okay._

"You know that?," he forced out, trying to shape the sound with his tongue into audible word, "Is that...what you know?"

She nodded. He did not relax, but he still understood. Natasha lied like the best of them, but not to him.

"I got...I gotta go in, though." _To raid, to raze, to remedy? What is it you want from me?_

The fog wavered at the edges of his consciousness like a badly developed photograph, and he shoved at it again.

"I...I've got to," he cast about for words, and settled on saying what he could read in her face, "I have to go and flush him out, Nat."

She shook her head, ruby curls bouncing like a wave of blood. "No, that's going to take time, and we don't have that long left."

He shuddered in the restraints, fingers itching for the touch of a bow and arrows undoubtedly taken in for decontamination and lockup due to his conflicted state. There was still too much _blue. _

"I don't understand," and he didn't, because if he did he wouldn't be in here, "Have you ever had someone take your brain and decide to play with it? Pull you out like a puzzle piece and send something else in that they liked better? Do you know," he gasped out, struggling to control himself, "Do you _know _what it's like to be unmade?"

She met his gaze unflinchingly, her eyes mercifully free of anything resembling pity or disgust. There is only bittersweet understanding, and he loved and hated that it was even there at all.

"You know that I do," she reminded him quietly.

"Then why am I back?," he asked. "How did you get him...get _that _out?"

Thin lips quirked up in a ghost of an expression that's half-smile, half-smirk. "Cognitive re-calibration. During the fight earlier, I hit you really hard in the back of the head. Seems to have worked."

He swallowed, unsure of how to answer, and so simply offered, "Thanks."

She nodded, reaching out slender hands to unfasten the restraints. There was still a knife up each of her sleeves, he noticed, and he crushed the urge to hiss in unjust frustration at the caution it showed. _Now is not the time for theatrics, Barton, get a grip. _

Forcing down the ugly feeling, he rubbed his wrists in relief, offering her a quick, darting glance of silent gratitude for the freedom she'd given him.

"Tasha," he said, resisting the urge to try and swallow the sudden lump in his throat, "How many agents...?"

"Don't," she cut him off sharply, eyes flashing, "Don't _do _that to yourself, Clint. This is Loki's doing, you know that. This is monsters and magic and aliens and _nothing _we were ever trained for."_  
_

Tan fingers reached out to grip the sides of the chair, pressing down hard. "Loki, he...he got away, then?"

"Yeah," she said, eyes bright with questions. "I don't suppose you know where, though?"

He shook his head, wishing the headache would go away. "No, I didn't need to know, so I didn't ask." _I'm not so sure that I wanted to know, either._

Natasha looked at him silently, waiting for him to continue, and so he did. "He's gonna make his play soon, though. Today. I know that much."

She nodded, straightening up. "We've got to stop him." It was a statement, a truth, a fact all at once, and he seized the stability it brought.

"Yeah, but who's we?" _Who've we got? Who haven't I ended while tagging along on the Vegas blue party-line?_

"I don't know," and the shrug she gives him as she spoke seemed a hairs' breadth too forcibly sharp, "Whoever's left now."

He resisted the urge to abruptly vomit, swallowing back the bile threatening to crawl up and out for a landing in the waste basket in the corner. _Shit._

"Well, then," he offered quietly, "Whatever happens from now on, at least if I put an arrow in Loki's eye socket, I suppose I'd sleep better."

The joke seemed to do the trick, as the worry left on her face was finally smoothed away completely. "Good, now you finally sound like yourself."

Readjusting herself on the chair, she leaned in slightly, her expression calmer.

"But _you_ don't," he shot back, disorientation still gnawing away at his mind, "You're a spy, Nat, not a soldier. Now you're telling me that you want to wade into war? Why? What did Loki do to you, huh?"

Red hair swished and bobbed as she shook her head in disagreement. "No, he didn't do anything to me," she reassured, "he's nuts, but he was in the Cage when I interrogated him. I just..."

She paused for a moment, expression contemplative. "Natasha...?," he asked warily. _Don't let her be compromised, don't let her be compromised..._

She gave him a bittersweet half-smirk, eyes dark with memory, and he swore his heart stopped for a second at her reply. "I've been compromised, and I need to fix it. I've got red in my ledger, remember? I'd like to wipe it out."

* * *

The Detention Section was dark and quiet as Tony stared, silent and unseeing, at the empty space where the Cage used to be.

Steve walked in quietly, taking in the sight with a furrowed brow and clenched fists.

"Was he married?" The question sprang forth before he could lock it away, and he felt uneasy at the way it hung in the empty air like a noose ready to slip shut.

"No," came the answer as Tony looked up at him, expression still unnervingly blank, "He...there was, uh...a cellist he was seeing, I think."

"I'm sorry," Steve offered quietly, because what else could he do in this unstable situation? "He seemed like a good man to me."

"He was an idiot." The words, spit out sharply as a mouthful of bitter medicine, skidded across the air like thrown rocks. "An _idiot._"

Steve felt anger threaten to flare up at the insult, and instinct drove new words to spring forth in retaliation. "Why? For believing in us? Is that it?"

Dark eyebrows drew together as Tony glared back at him. "No, you moron. I meant for taking on Loki _alone_. That's like going up against a stray cat with claws _and _rabies."

"He was doing his job!," he defended. "S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives all know what we're facing here, but he still tried!"

The billionaire's upset expression didn't soften. "He was still out of his league here. He should have waited, he should have-!"

He cut himself off sharply, hands curling and uncurling into fists. Steve watched the motion, wondering what to do.

"He...sometimes there isn't a way out, Tony. He knew that."

Tony walked away, running his hands along the control panel for a moment to steady himself. "_Right. _Just _how _did that work out for him?"

_Wait a second... _Steve walked forward automatically. "Is this the first time you've lost a soldier, then?"

The reaction was explosive: Tony whirled around sharply, his eyes bright, mouth twisted into a snarl. "_We are not soldiers, dammit! _I am _not _here to march along on Fury's fife like a drone!"

"Well, neither am I!," Steve roared back, and the sudden shock of it's enough to quiet Tony for a moment as the sound rang through the room. "He's got blood on his hands, same as Loki does, and I know it. But right now, we've got to put that aside and get this done, understand?"

_For Coulson. _The words, hanging in the air, are both silent and loud as a clap of thunder, and both men resisted the urge to wince at the unspoken presence it gave off.

"Alright." The answer was short, blunt, but nonetheless an agreement, and so Steve thought it was safe now to continue.

"Now, Loki needs a power source, so if we can put together a list..."

But Tony didn't answer, and so Steve looked at him, about to speak, but the words faded on his tongue when he saw the other man staring at the wall, gazing at the blood staining the surface like a sickening declaration. _No more._

"He made it personal." The words, spoken as if dragged out in chains, sound like gravel scraping underfoot. "Damn him, he made it _personal._"

"That's not the point," Steve interjected, even though every particle of his being agreed. _Aim for the Achille's heel, right? That's what the enemy always does._

"No, that _is _the point. That's Loki's point, that's the point of every damn thing out there that wants to kill you! He went and hit us, shot us all right where we think, we hope, we live. And you know why?"

There's a lump in his throat the size of a grapefruit, and Steve had to struggle to force it back in order to reply. "To tear us apart."

Tony nodded in grim satisfaction at the answer. "Gold star, Cap. He knows he has to take us out in order to win this, right? That's just what he wants. He wants to beat us, stomp us into the dirt, and he wants to be seen doing it, too. He wants an audience."

Ugly understanding bloomed in the wake of the statement. "Right," he said slowly, stomach rolling in sickening waves at the thought, "I caught his little act in Stuttgart earlier."

"Yeah, but that's just a free preview and you know it. This...this is opening night," and hands waved in the air, gesticulating wildly in half-horrified, half-prideful smugness at having figured it out, "and Loki, he's a full-tilt diva. He's the damn _prima donna. _He wants flowers, he wants applause, he wants parades, he wants a monument built to the skies with his name plastered...!"

Steve felt ice flood his veins as Tony's expression abruptly changed, a horrified, ever so slightly impressed look of incredulity bursting into view.

"That sonofa_bitch...!_"

* * *

The wind whistled madly across the roof of Stark Tower as a frighteningly bright-eyed Selvig danced around the CMS device, calloused fingers nimbly prodding and adjusting the great machine into its proper position.

Everything must be perfect. _She _had said so, and the Tesseract deserved the very best.

* * *

The Helicarrier's medical room burst into a flurry of whispers as Steve strode rapidly into view, clad in full uniform and with the sharp, steady, rapid pace of a soldier about to embark on a mission.

Natasha blinked as she looked up at him from her seat next to an empty restraining chair, slightly taken aback as she drank in the sight.

Steve stopped in front of the two assassins, his stance sharp and back straight as he looked at the two. "Time to go."

The tone brooked no arguments. She ignored the glimmer of respect the bluntness evoked. "Alright," she said, "go to where?"

He shook his head, blonde bangs flopping from side to side like the shake of a sodden Labrador. "No time to explain right now, I'll tell you on the way. Can you fly one of those jets in the hangar?"

The sound of incoming footsteps drew attention to a newly-refreshed Clint, who stepped out of the adjoining restroom with a serious expression.

"I can," the archer volunteered quietly.

Steve looked to Natasha in silent askance of the situation. _Good?_

She offered a quick, short nod in conformation. _Good.__  
_

He turned his attention to Clint, swallowing the relief threatening to burst forth into audibility at the sight of mercifully clear, dark eyes free of any hint of blue, and instead offered, "Got a suit you can use?"

A nod. "Yeah."

He gripped his shield tightly, feet already itching to move. "Then suit up, 'cause we're moving out."

* * *

The air stung with quivers of tension as lightning slammed down into the contact point between Mjolnir's head and Thor's hand, super-heating in an explosion of light and sound.

He looked up at the sky. _War has arrived here, sweet and bloody. _

His mother had taught him not to keep a lady waiting, and he knew not of a more demanding mistress than battle.

Thor clenched the hammer tightly, swinging it overhead in a loop, and took to the embrace of the sky. Overhead, clouds grew and rumbled in greying bursts, sodden and heavy with the promise of the oncoming storm.

* * *

Dropping the pen back back onto the table, Steve reached for the blue helmet, fingers rubbing at the scratches covering the surface from when he'd been thrown headlong into a tree in Stuttgart.

Slipping it over his head, he closed his eyes for a moment as the protective gear settled into place, and then reached for the final piece of his uniform. The small, plain-looking grey pouch that he'd added blended in with the inside of his shield with comforting ease.

A quick grazing of fingers to ensure the pouch was fully zipped shut, and he slid the shield back onto his arm.

Satisfied that the cards were safe, he set off to meet up with his teammates. He could sign the rest of the deck later.

* * *

Dropping his tools back into their kit, Tony held the repaired helmet in his hands and took in the sight of the repaired circuitry and metal with an air of satisfaction. The soldering and welding kit he'd used earlier had done its job admirably, repairing the worst of the damage to his suit.

Putting it back on, he felt a grim smile slid into place at the sight of the bright, undamaged viewscreen flickering to life in a stream of blue and red data.

_Showtime._

* * *

The gauntlet, newly attached to her wrist with a fresh round of ammunition, glowed brightly with the telltale blue light of a fully charged battery. Natasha nodded to herself, satisfied, and began reloading the bullet chamber of her handgun.

Beside her, Clint slid on his quiver of arrows, servicing his restored bow with the meticulous air of one wanting optimum performance. She noted, with a feeling of silent approval, that the newly refitted arsenal included electric, blast, sonic, tear gas, and incendiary.

* * *

The hangar was rife with tension as the occupants stared at each other, three in the Quinjet, and one on the ground.

To be fair, Steve conceded mentally, having several heavily armed people come to take the most important aircraft in the hangar without presenting official permission first in a wartime situation would throw anyone off their normal perception of reality.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. pilot, young and worried-looking, wrung his hands nervously as he stared up at them. To his credit, he did not move, and instead stood in their way, blocking the exit.

"I'm sorry, but you're not authorized to be here..."

Steve let out a gusty sigh, readjusting the grip on his shield in agitation as he looked into the younger man's eyes. "Son...just don't. You don't want to get involved in this."

* * *

The bridge of the Helicarrier had fallen into a semi-calm after the veritable storm from earlier, people back at what stations they could with subdued but determined expressions as they continued monitoring the external space and internal workings of the airship.

Fury stared out of the window, silently contemplating.

After a moment, Agent Hill, a knowing expression on her face, walked over and stood beside him in quiet companionship. "Sir?"

"Agent Hill," he acknowledged, his gaze unmoving.

"Sir...," she swallowed in apprehension, wondering if bluntness was the best approach. "Sir, those cards weren't found in Coulson's jacket. They were in his locker."

He held the empty card pack in his hands, eyes challenging as they looked back at her. "They needed the push, Agent Hill."

She opened her mouth as if to object, but an understanding look flitted across her face and she nodded silently.

The moment of silence was rudely broken when a harsh, loud noise screeched through the air like nails gouging glass, and Fury's gaze snapped back around, eyes widening slightly to see Tony, clad in the repaired Iron Man suit, flying alongside the Quinjet, heading toward land.

He turned back to her, eyes blazing anew. "They've found it. Get our communications back up, the med bay ready, whatever you have to do. I want eyes on everything!"

She straightened up, eyes sharp, and nodded. "Yes, Sir."

* * *

Loki shifted in place, wishing the seats of the carrier were more comfortable. The symbiote rumbled in a slow, continuous mental purr of wheat-gold satisfaction, delighted in the gluttony they had indulged in before boarding the airship.

To be fair, the meal they'd taken part in before departure _had _been quite gratifying, in no small part due to the sheer size of it.

_Poor Kaminssky, all gone, all gone, _the symbiote crooned delightedly. _Not even boness left...__  
_

_He wass a rather poor pilot to begin with, _Loki agreed. _Couldn't even put up a proper fight, even with all thosse firearmss. Sscreamed like a josstled infant when he saw uss and fell out of the cockpit like a dropped plate._

In the man's defence, the sight of a huge, hulking mass of writhing shadows, brutal claws, and razor-sharp teeth would startle even the most hardened of agents into shooting wildly, even if that included shooting their own foot. The man had cursed like a man possessed as he'd gotten up and broken into a run, but the injured limb and trail of lost blood had left him terribly vulnerable. It had been almost disgustingly easy to catch him, and from there, absorption had been almost completely effortless as the struggling grew weaker and weaker...

While chasing their meal through the airship, he'd rediscovered the Helicarrier lab, and taken back the ill-held scepter with reluctant grace. Needless to say, without the blanketing, calming fog of the Mindgem pulsing through the air once again, he was certain that the sight of him, hair matted with gore, face smeared with blood, hands clutching the handle of the scepter as if it were a neck to choke, would not be nearly as well-received by the converted minions when they'd found him and flanked him to the hangar for departure.

_One lesss of them, one more meal for uss. _The thought was tooth-achingly pleasing.

"Hey Boss, just a heads up, but we'll be in the city in about ten minutes," came the call from up front.

_Excellent. _The god looked out at the incoming cityscape, easily spotting the almost obnoxiously large high-rise tower in the distance.

_Time to begin the third act. _

The symbiote shifted in place, curling pencil-thin ribbons of shadow around lean fingers; Loki rubbed the sable twists of lukewarm material almost absentmindedly, tracing patterns against the answering tendrils.

_Can we get a drink there? The human wass ssalty..._

He smirked darkly, eyes glittering with anticipation as the lettering on the side of the building become visible.

_Sstark Towerss, hmm? The man offended uss with that horrible excusse for mussic, I do believe he owess uss._


	9. This Fateful Descent

**A/N: NOTE #1: One of the symbiote's more terrifically twisted comic book manipulations of It's size and shape has been used to make up for the most recent apparent plothole in the film's script, this time to address that it neglects to explain how Loki (and, of course, the symbiote) managed to get to the Tower and onto the patio to wait for Tony _without _the security system and/or J.A.R.V.I.S. detecting the unauthorized presence and trying to fry said intrusion alive for intruding on the property like the world's craziest burglar. **

**NOTE #2: _Cirri _is plural for _cirrus. _  
**

**DISCLAIMER: As per the usual, I own nothing financially profitable of _Marvel_, Norse mythology, etc., be it characters, places, pop cultural references, phrases/paraphrases, etc.  
**

**WARNING: Your daily dose of gore, foul language, semi-graphic violence, dark/morbid humor, and, in this case, a possible case of fanmade literature-vertigo.**

* * *

The air hung with tension like an iron curtain as Tony finally arrived at the tower, taking in the sight of a maniac-eyed Selvig with concealed unease. The man had thick bags around his eyes, his skin had paled further from work-induced aversion to sunlight, and his nails were untrimmed. A ripe stench filtered up through the air; clearly, the poor converted man had neglected personal hygiene for working on the hulking mass of machinery and power that had been set up.

_Looks like somebody's been taking a little too much blue mojo..._

The CMS Device glowed like a cluster of shimmering noctiluca drawn up from the depths of the ocean, pulsing and humming in a frighteningly steady manner.

"Shut it down, J.A.R.V.I.S.," he said, eyeing the device and pondering whether or not the scientist was far enough out of range to risk a repulsor blast.

**_"Sir, there appears to be a problem. I took it off the Arc Reactor, but the device is already self-sustained. You need to have the power source destroyed or removed manually."_**

"Taken out or blown up, got it." He looked down at the glowing cocoon of power, weighing his options, and decided to try the diplomatic route. _Try and talk him out of it, that's the way to go. I hope._

Flying down lower, he opened his visor to help amplify the noise. "Dr. Selvig, you have to shut it down! There's an army approaching and unless you want to be shredded for it, you need to stop this _now!_"

The man looked back up at him, eyes glowing wildly in that sickening, mesmerizing shade of blue, and let out a bark of laughter, the sound as carefree and hysterical as a child on an amusement park roller coaster. "No can do, it's too late! It can't stop now, She wants to show us something! A whole new universe, all of it at our fingertips, and all we can do is wait for it to come to us!"

"...Okay, then. If you say so." _Yep, diplomacy time's definitely over. Time for war on this thing._

Aiming his hands toward the CMS device, he angled the trajectory to keep the converted scientist out of the worst of the blast, and then fired off a shot. Sizzling twin bolts of energy burst forth from the boosters in each hand with a whistling, deafening _crack _as they shot through the air and slammed into the machine. Selvig, blown back from the explosion of power, fell backwards into an unkempt heap some feet away, knocked unconscious and left rather bruised, but nonetheless mostly unharmed.

Far down below, the people of New York stared up in abject shock, gazes jerked upwards automatically by the sudden outbreak of noise.

The CMS Device was completely unharmed. Tony stared in dismay at the daunting sight, fighting down the curl of unease that threatened, for an unpleasant moment, to grow into a sickening tidal wave.

After a moment, the unsettling sensation was shoved down into an abyss of internal silence, and he turned his attention to J.A.R.V.I.S. for a potential answer. "What're the readings saying on this thing?"

_**"That barrier is pure energy, it's completely impenetrable. Unless my calculations are incorrect, and they very seldom are, nothing in our current technical arsenal can break through."**_

He considered the gravity of that statement for a moment, weighing possible alternatives. "What about Mark VII, J.A.R.V.? I need options here."

**_"Sir, if you're thinking of using that, then I really must ask you to reconsider. The Mark VII is not yet ready to be deployed-"_**

"So skip the spinning rims and the paint job. We're on the clock here, and it's ticking down pretty damn fast."

Landing on the patio, he began walking through the removal gauntlet, painfully aware that with every piece taken off his body, he was becoming increasingly exposed.

_It's my own place, my own turf. Nothing's going to happen-_

"A_hem_." The sound of a soft, almost inaudible cough rent the air like ink bleeding into paper, and he turned to look instinctively for the source of potential danger.

Sitting cross-legged on the ledge, eyes glittering with vicious intelligence like an exposed live wire, was the very reason the Helicarrier was limping along back to the mainland's shore like a dog that had been shot. A thin hand clutched the liquidized-nightmare-splattered handle of the scepter loosely against a lean, black-clad side. Claw-tipped fingers tapped a repetitive four-part rhythm against the surface in an sharp, jarring drumbeat that left sparks dripping down to jump and jangle against the pavement of the patio like handfuls of hot gold coins. The smile on the thin slice of mouth seemed a touch too wide, too sharp, as if he were looking at the whetted curve of a harvesting scythe's sickle blade, or the freshly sharpened edge of an old-fashioned barber's straight razor.

_Dammit. Rock of Ages decided to crash here, hmm? _The air suddenly seemed a touch too still, too stifling, and he resisted the urge to swallow in trepidation; his mouth suddenly felt uncomfortably dry. There was no suit on now to shield his body if the encounter went south.

Wordlessly, he jerked his head toward the penthouse door, forcibly crushing the instinctive urge to reach for something, _anything_, to grasp and use as a potential weapon.

_If I was down in the lab, this wouldn't be a problem. Wrenches, hot irons, copper wire, blowtorch..._

The lab was over a dozen stories below his feet, and knowing his luck, he still would be dead within seconds. He discarded the useless train of thought, and beckoned again.

The look of indulgent amusement at the gesture gave rise to a fresh wave of unease, and he walked forward, inwardly wondering if he would be able to talk to Pepper one last time before he expired.

* * *

_A bit too osstentatiouss, but mosst certainly not the worsst place to hold a converssation, _the god mused as he walked through the doors. The symbiote rumbled in agreement, taking in the sight of the lavish surroundings with an air of greenish-yellow curiosity, scanning the furniture and calculating the potential damage capable of being caused if each piece was thrown or absorbed.

Somewhat idly, he wondered how long it would take before the security system came fully online once more. The symbiote's brief extension into the main power lines to disable the alarms on the top floor had taken some time due to the intricacy of the system in question, and he was uncertain how long such a disarmament would hold.

Stark walked down the steps to the bar, his gait forcibly casual. Loki couldn't help but admire the effort, even if only slightly. To appear so calm before one's enemy was a difficult thing to accomplish.

"Pleasse tell uss you're going to try and appeal to our _humanity_," he drawled, hands held out in mocking supplication. "We'd sso very much like to know what you're planning to _do._"

Brown eyes flickered up to gaze back at him, and, to the human's credit, he inwardly conceded, the apprehension was reasonably masked, considering the situation. "Uh...no, actually, I'm planning to threaten you."

Thin lips curled upwards at the corners in the ghost of a smirk. _How very bold of you. Perhapss overly sso. _"You really sshould have left your armor _on _for that. Promissess, promissess..."

The other man shrugged, gaze still steady despite the concrete-thick tension in the air, and reached for a thick crystal container on the bar counter. "Yeah, I guess it's seen a bit of mileage. Thought I'd give it a little respite, you know? You've got the blue stick of destiny here. I've got no ace up my sleeve."

Calloused hands reached forward to grasp the thick cut neck of the decanter, tipping the bottle forward to pour a steady stream of amber-golden liquid into a squat glass tumbler. "You want a drink?"

Despite the ache in his dry throat at the words, it was clear that the offer was still given, at least primarily, as a distraction. Loki forced himself to look away from the enticing trickle of golden alcohol flowing into the glass, and spat out the truth slowly burning his tongue like a smouldering coal. "Sstalling uss won't change anything, it'ss far too late for that."

A chuckle broke the gravity of the words; Stark, decanter in one hand, did not seem to want to let the silence consume the air. "No, no, no, not stalling. Threatening, remember?" The slow reddening of the man's neck spoke volumes of his apprehension, but it was clear that he was unwilling to give up easily. Hands gestured again, holding up the tumbler as if in a toast. "You sure, then? No drink? Your loss, then. I'm having one."

Humming a nonsensical tune in an act of mocking deliberation, the man drew a mouthful of the drink, Adam's apple bobbing as the swig of liquid disappeared, and Loki tore his gaze away from the sight with a low hiss of simmering aggravation. Fingers clenched tightly around the handle of the scepter, scraping at the metal. _You're tessting my patience, and that issn't a good thing to do here. _

The symbiote curled several thin tendrils around his hands, twisting and pressing up against the junction between each finger in an effort for distraction and sedation, and he latched onto the balm of tranquility, taking in the offer of support and sobriety with silent relief as he regained his composure. "You know the Chitauri are coming, that nothing will change that. Sso, then, what have we to fear?"

"The Avengers," came the sharp, almost cocky answer, and the sheer amount of bravado in the words drew the god's attention back. Drawing on the look of confusion that could not be entirely faked, the man elaborated. "It's what we like to call ourselves, it's sort of like a team. You know, "EARTH'S MIGHTIEST HEROES" type of thing." The tumbler's contents sloshed about with each wild hand wave, threatening to spill out and soak the undoubtedly expensive carpet.

He blinked, wondering if somehow the human's answer had become lost in translation. "Yess, we've met them."

A smile lit the other man's face, this time firmer, more confident. "Yeah, well, it takes us a while to get any traction, I'll give you that one, at least. Although, that's not the point. But," he waved a finger, "let's do a little head count here, huh? Your brother, the demigod; a super soldier who's a living legend that _kind_ of lives up to the legend part; a man with some truly _breathtaking _anger-management issues; two master assassins, plus _me. _And you, big fella," he took another swallow from the glass, "Well, you've managed to go and piss off every single last one of them."

The smile flashed as he took another gulp of the drink was laced with mockery, and they both knew it. Loki wondered idly if tearing it off of the man's face, along with a good chunk of skin in the process, would be worth the effort expended. The look _was _rather rude...

_No, _he decided inwardly, _too much_ _work, and it would ruin the flooring if the blood ssprayed everywhere. _The symbiote rumbled inwardly in a fit of fleeting disappointment, and he forcibly smothered the urge to laugh that the sensation brought.

Taking the less physically damaging option, he offered bitingly,"That _wass_ the plan." _Given your attitude sso far, thiss truth will undoubtedly fly over your head like a migrating bird. If only it tassted lesss bitter..._

"Yeah, well, not a great plan there. When they come," brown eyes narrowed, hardening into chips of dark cocoa and amber, "And they _will _come...they'll come for you. You'll be a smear on the sidewalk, if they're nice enough to even leave you at that."

Underneath the bar table, fingers reached out to grasp a hidden salvation, pulling on the pair of thin bracelets with sharp, quick movements. The symbiote warbled mentally in apprehension at the flicker of motion, tracking the action warily.

"We have an army," the god put forth, eyes narrowing at the shifting behind the counter. _Unwillingly taken on, hungry for death and desstruction, bound by the flimssiesst of demonic dealss to thiss tongue'ss orderss, __but sstill mobile under thiss reluctant command, nonethelesss._

"We have a Hulk," came the reply, and the persistent fire in the dark eyes refused to waver.

"We thought that the beasst had wandered off, free to roam your realm again," he said, confusion lacing the words in choking strings of verbal garrot wire. _What odd newss iss thiss, then, hmm? You build a cage to lock your monsster in, and the monsster esscapess before ever ssetting foot in it. Ssuch irony, what a world, what a world, indeed..._

"You're kind of missing the point here," another swallow, and the tumbler was polished off with a sharp flourish, "Don't you get it?" Hands gestured around in an apparent generalization of incomprehension. "There's no throne, there never has been. There's no version of this where you come out on top. Maybe your army comes and maybe it's too much for us here, but that's all on you, because even if we can't protect the Earth, you can at least be damned well sure that we can avenge it."

Loki blinked at the statement, slight surprise rearing up at the amount of absolution in the other man's voice. _Sso, you truly believe that, do you? Even if thiss world of yourss fallss down to ruin and razing, you will sstand there in the rubble with rage and fire in your heart, and you will tear away at what thosse ressponssible until the lasst of your blood and breath leavess you._

The dark eyes gleamed with fire, and the scepter rumbled with promises of destruction in his reluctant hold. _Perhapss we sshould tesst that._

He walked forward, scepter crackling with energy in one hand; the damnable weapon was whispering again, the Mind Gem's depraved crooning of dark wants dripping out like beads of golden poison. The symbiote let out an internal hiss of disgust, forcibly shoring up the mental walls again to help block out the incessant, grating babbling.

"How will your friendss have the time for uss," he offered quietly, "When they're going to be sso bussy with ssimply fighting _you_?"

Reaching out, he tapped the sharpened end of the weapon against the center of the other man's chest, wondering idly if it would even work. The large, ornate piece of metal in the center seemed all too easily placed to work as a natural obstruction...

The blade clanged against the metal surface, ringing faintly, but the telltale blue gleam of the Mind Gem's enticement was notably absent; both men looked down at the site of apparent magic incompatibility with confusion.

"Thiss ussually workss..." _Or rather, it sshould work, but the metal sseemss to block the effectss, how odd. Perhapss becausse the contact iss not complete like with the otherss, or the metal and it'ss contentss might posssesss ssome otherworldly protective qualitiess..._

The look of bewilderment on the human's visage quickly morphed into an expression of inappropriate amusement. "Well, game over. Always some performance issues, you know?"

Despite the immaturity of the statement, rage and disgust bubbled up in instinctive reply like hot tar; a mere split second after the words had been uttered, and a thin hand shot forwards, gripping the other man's throat in a vice grip, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise skin and reduce oxygen intake, and then lifted up and _swung_. Stark hurtled across the room in a blur of dark clothing, slamming bodily into the far wall with an echoing _crash._

"Shit! J.A.R.V.I.S., anytime now...!" Wincing, the other man pulled himself to his feet, expression dazed. A thin trickle of blood dribbled down from a cut on his forehead. Fingers reached for the bracelets again, pressing against the metal in a blatant attempt to reactivate the signal.

_You vile, contemptuouss, perversse little...!_

Loki reached out again, and the symbiote twisted in place, rippling like an sea of ebony silk as needle-sharp spikes shot up across the surface in an instinctive reaction to the rage burning through their shared vessel.

Fingers wrapped around the thick throat once more, the tips of each sharpened nail digging into flesh, puncturing skin and leaving tiny beaded rivulets of scarlet freely dribbling like the meltwater of a slowly-melting glacier. Stark was pulled upright, struggling and gasping for air as he hung in the grasp of one outstretched limb like a man dangling from a hangman's noose, trying futilely to get the rope off.

_Ssnap the neck?,_ the symbiote offered, taking in the sight of the squirming male with a contemplative air. _He would be quieter..._

Taking in the thought of the proposition, the god pondered it for a moment before discarding the idea as useless. _While__ that iss indeed true, fortunately for him, we need him alive to help end the filth that brutalized thiss form. Hiss teammatess sstill require hiss aid in the upcoming battle if they are to win. _

_Okay...sstill make him quieter, though, yess?_

_Yess._

"You know," he muttered coldly, infusing each word with an unnerving amount of outward indifference as he stared into the wide dark eyes, "You really sshouldn't have ssaid that. One way or another, you will all fall before uss, even if takess a little..._perssuassion_ to get our point acrosss."

He looked to the window, taking a split second to enjoy the rather lovely high-rise view, and felt a dark smirk stretch across his face.

_Perfect._

Pulling back his arm, he threw the human forward; the window shattered on impact into a shining cloud of diamond-bright glass as a twisting, shouting body slammed through the thin barrier with ease, dropping down below amid a long, echoing shriek of shock and horror. Loki peered over the edge, watching as Stark's form grew increasingly smaller as he plummeted downwards.

_He won't die, will he? _The symbiote's question held very little remorse in it, but then, rather validly, It had no true reason to worry. The body flung out the window was not the one It chose to inhabit, and thus was of no immediate relevance.

_If he wass a normal human, he would. But, if I recall correctly, he hass that sstrange metal armor to call on for protection..._

True to form, the elevator behind him opened up with a _ding _and a thick red pod shot out as if fired from a cannon. Loki automatically ducked at the sound, dropping to the floor in a low crouch as a blur of burnt red and pale gold flashed overhead, a thin red beam of light shooting out of it to lock onto the free-falling figure so far below.

He stared for a moment at the racing blur of movement, watching in reluctant fascination as the infamous metal suit unfolded from the case and enveloped the human reaching out to it, wrapping mortal flesh in a full-body metal shield in a gleam of light. Just before hitting the ground, the Iron Man suit was fully on and activated, and the onlooking civilians screamed and ran as the rocket boosters in the feet blazed to life, propelling the would-be deceased man back upwards.

For a moment, god, symbiote, and human all stared at each other, and then Stark decided to make the first move.

"And just so you know, there's one other person that you pissed off during your little stay here! His name was Phil!" Opening his hands, he fired off twin blasts of energy, white-hot and blazing like miniature suns.

_Oh, but of **coursse** you would remember the name of your nanny, but not of the oness who ended up dead when we firsst came to thiss world with the Mind Gem, or thosse who perisshed when your flying airsship malfunctioned. Nornss forbid you find it in your mental capacity to think of **them**, but kill off the one man who had enough bravery to try and kill off the prissoner, the apparent masstermind behind all of thiss lunacy, before any of your own lot did, and you all go completely mad. The hypocrissy of you people outsstripss even me._

The air stung with heat, and Loki moved back from the blast even as the repulsors heated with telltale white light, glowing like enourmous captured fireflies. Unfortunately, this was not quite enough to move entirely out of the firing range, given the limited amount of movement afforded in the enclosed space of the penthouse; a shot of sizzling white energy blasted through the air and slammed into his left side with an sickening shredding of sound.

The scent of burnt flesh permeated the air in a noxious cocktail of charred skin, muscle, and symbiotic covering. Loki, thrown back by the force of the explosion of energy, looked up from his crouched position, one hand digging claw-tipped fingertips deep into the floor as a stabilizer and one foot bent before the other, ready to bound away at the slightest movement; sharp eyes stared back furiously at the human responsible for the energy blast even as the symbiote wrapped a half-dozen thick tendrils around the injury site and began soothing and knitting tissue back together.

_Time to_ _leave,_ he mused in aggravated resignation_, or elsse I'd be tempted to raze thiss place to the ground. _His gaze flicked downwards to scan the burn, feeling the echo of his other half's pain at the heat-induced mutilation as tiny mental hisses punctuated each tendril's threading through damaged flesh and semi-fluid, and felt his anger flare up anew. It took several seconds to crush the urge to speak the fouler of hexes threatening to form on his lips, and he reluctantly discarded the incantation for an entrails-expelling curse before it could reach the air and lash out.

Irritated, he watched silently as the human flew off, evidently satisfied that he was down for the moment.

_He'ss lucky he'ss sstill needed, or elsse he would be in piecess for that little attack of hiss. _

_Are you **ssure** we can't eat him?_

_...Unfortunately, yess. _

* * *

Selvig, having since woken up from his state of unconsciousness, nursed a new egg-sized lump on his head as he looked up at the darkening sky. The Tesseract's shining blue light shot into the heavens like an enourmous neon beacon, glowing and pulsing wildly as it formed a swirling vortex.

The vortex undulated and quaked with light, flickering like the eye of a hurricane, and collapsed in on itself, opening up into a gaping, cavernous portal, the raw, open wound in the sky seeming to suck in the light and warmth from the air as an oncoming mass of seething grey grew visible in the celestial tear.

* * *

The army chattered wildly as the thick crack in space ripped into existence, widening like the fissures left by an earthquake. Surging through, the hoard spilled out into the ravaged heavens, riding in on twisted chariots, each greying limb clutching an energy rifle tipped with a razor-edged bayonet.

* * *

Tony knew today was going to be a terrible day.

Then the sky was invaded by flying alien hovercrafts and intergalactic skeletal whales, and the situation was shot to all hell.

Looking up at the seething mass of incoming combatants, he felt a sickening plummeting sensation in his gut. "Right, then. Army of space aliens. Got it."

Flying up toward the portal, the suit opened up at the shoulder areas, exposing a pair of miniature rocket launchers, which twisted into position and the fired off a half-dozen rounds in a burst of heated light and smoke trails.

The explosive rounds smashed into the portal with an explosion of sound, but the intergalactic gateway, to his dismay, remained as intact as the CMS Device. Thousands upon thousands of Chitauri flew out, ignoring the failed attempt to close their entryway, and began swooping down to attack.

Tony swore a blue streak as he sped off, flying toward the city as quickly as he could.

* * *

Downtown was in complete and utter disarray: the Chitauri sped through the air, firing into the streets and blasting apart vehicles, stop signs, and sidewalks as horrified civilians tore through the area, staring in shock at the incoming firefight as they hurried to find shelter in the nearest buildings.

The air stung with heat and the foul stench of gas, broken sewer lines, and plaster. A blast ripped open the top corners of a high-rise building, and chunks of flaming rubble and rock plummeted downwards to pelt the streets as people shrieked and scrambled for cover.

A domino-effect set off from the wreckage, and explosions went off like dozens of high-end firecrackers all down the bridge.

* * *

Walking onto the balcony, Loki surveyed the growing chaos with grim satisfaction, watching with a churning sensation that's half-mad glee, half-unease as the carnage below unfolded like a wartime soap opera.

_At leasst we didn't tell them to invade the Easst, _the symbiote murmured, looking on with flickers of orange-yellow nervous anticipation.

_True. _The decision to invade a Midgardian landmass with a particularly large human population was a given, due to the amount of deaths the Mad Titan so hungrily demanded, but the decision to stage the invasion _here _had, admittedly, been more than partially influenced by the anticipated reaction of his not-brother. Thor had never enjoyed seeing those he cared for in harm's way, and the mortals he had become so gleefully acquainted with in the few days of his banishment had left enough of a positive impact to cause him to object to the attempted destruction of Jotunheim. If the humans had left such a profound blow to his perception of the universe that he refused to allow the demolition of a world populated by those he only knew as the monsters he himself had previously tried to slay, then an attack on the world he'd gotten so childishly attached to, so dearly charming with his apparent lady love, would clearly be completely and utterly _depraved_.

Thor had been the leader in almost all things acceptable for their status and age that Loki could remember. If he refused to accept the attack on Midgard, he would find some way to assist the mortals living there in order to help repel the invasion. Norns knew that they would not accept an attempted conquest of their realm without a fight of some sort, they held far too much willpower not to object. _And, lo and behold, they all rallied together to deny the Chitauri and their filthy masster their world. To think they grouped together sso eassily...it'ss a tad remarkable. Mosst wartime councilss take longer to agree on a term of action. _

Although it had taken them some time to finally work as a collective unit, they had managed it. Judging by the crude but effective severance of the Mind Gem's link to the Hawk, they had even gotten their archer back. _Jusst in time for the final act, too. How very fortunate._

Thor landed on the roof with an echoing _thud, _slamming into the patio surface with enough force to leave cracks in the cement. "Loki!," he shouted up, blue eyes bright with stormy rage, "Turn off the Tesseract right now, or else I'll destroy it!"

He grinned, baring his teeth coldly, and stood back, arms splayed out in mockery. "You can't, it'ss too late. There iss no sstopping it now, there iss only the war!"

_If that doessn't enrage him, nothing will._

Slim tendrils of sable reached up from the catsuit's surface, curling and winding together into intricately knotted bracers as sharpened, jagged blades extended from either side, slicing through the air as a series of extendable knives jutting out down the length of each outward-facing arm.

_Let the finale commence, then. Thuss we go, to death? To desstiny? To delirium? Thiss form iss damned already, sso what awaitss in the afterlife?_

He watched Mjolnir, crackling with raw energy, a fine, mirage-like shimmer of electricity skating around the head of the hammer in a dizzying haze. _Be careful, _he reminded his other half, _I know you will do your besst to avoid the hammer'ss power, but Mjolnir iss sstill dangerouss. _

Warmth flickered through the bond, reassuring and stabilizing. _Will be careful, _It promised, and there was no hint of mockery in the words, only blunt acquiescence. Satisfied at the answer, he backed down.

The scepter pulsed in one hand, hungry for blood and death, and he lunged forward, hurtling off the balcony feet-first; Thor ran forward to meet him head-on, cape fanning out behind like a spray of blood from a severed artery, Mjolnir crackling dangerously with thin streams of lightning.

They collided in a burst of power, bodily slamming into armor-covered flesh.

* * *

Soldiers and police had mobilized in response to the threat, taking to the streets to cover roadways and all points coming in and out of the main metropolitan area. Batons, loaded pistols, and calls for assistance by outside military forces all had been taken on with the utmost care.

Looking to the sky, they watched in silent shock as Iron Man flew through the air, leading a trail of incoming Chitauri in a wild chase back to Stark Tower.

* * *

The Quinjet shot through the sky like a streak of obsidian, flying into the city in due haste.

A crackle of static accompanied Natasha's voice as she spoke over the intercom. "Stark, we've reached the city. We're heading north-west now."

Tony's reply burst through the other end of communications network, tinged with a half-amused, half-irritated tone. "What do you mean, you've just reached the city? Did you stop for drive-thru or something? Swing up and get ready, I've got the first wave up and coming, and I'm gonna lay 'em out for you."

* * *

Banking around the Tower, he dove in front of the Quinjet, and, true to prediction, the Chitauri followed in a haze of rotting grey skin and shimmering metal transportation.

_C'mon, you alien piss piles, let's play a little game of Chicken. _

Dropping several feet, he shot down to the street below, and the nearest Chitauri, riding up so close behind him the heat from the charging energy rifle would have been felt without the suit on, crashed brutally into the concrete.

_One down, about a billion more to go._

Doubling back, he lured the rest of the motley following higher into the air again, pulling them into firing range. "They're all yours, guys. Have at it!"

The Quinjet trembled for a moment as Natasha took out a machine gun and began firing into the floating hoard, tearing into flesh even as the Chitauri shrieked and scattered.

**_"Sir, the scanners indicate that we have far more incoming. You'd best prepare for them." _**

_Dammit. _"Fine, they want to come at us? Then let's keep them occupied." Palms faced outwards, charging with energy, and he flew off towards the portal, the next wave of enemy soldiers spilling out in a deluge of destruction in savage greeting.

* * *

It was more difficult than anticipated, he inwardly conceded, to fight against Thor in his current state. Even with the energy boost gained by the recent meal, his stamina was still somewhat limited, and the symbiote had been allotted the bulk of the strength left between them in order to maintain the durability of their vessel's body armor and blades. Exhaustion came creeping up in slow, insidious streams back into his veins, and he wondered for a moment if, when all was said and done, perhaps he might be allowed to rest, even if only in isolation, after the invading force had been purged from Midgard.

_Mosst likely not, _he thought ruefully, _they would be more willing to have thiss body gutted like a newly caught fissh._

But there would be time for such trivialities as sleep later. He lunged again, blades swinging forward to graze his opponent's face and draw blood, and then jumped back out of the way of Mjolnir's incoming burst of close-range lightning. A shudder raced down his spine as the warmth of the blast skittered through the air, rippling like a heat mirage as the thunderbolt slammed into the patio surface. _Too closse for comfort._

_Too loud for comfort, either, _the symbiote muttered irritably, bursts of deep orange irritation dripping across the mindscape as another _boom _shook the skies again, rattling the penthouse windows.

_True, true. _As usual, his companion spoke truths enough for the both of them.

Holding the scepter aloft, he fired off another burst of blue energy in the thunder god's direction; the blast slammed directly into its intended target, knocking Thor backwards and forcing him to slide across the patio surface as if shoved by an invisible hand.

* * *

The Quinjet thrummed with power as Clint looked out one of the left windows, picking out a target.

"Yeah, we've got it."

"See them?," Natasha asked him, not bothering to turn her head. They both knew he wouldn't miss.

Offering a short grunt of affirmation, he twisted the steering wheel, banking the aircraft toward Stark Tower. The redirection accomplished, he reached to his belt, pulling off a loaded minigun.

Aiming the weapon at his chosen quarry, he pulled the trigger back and let go. _Hope this hurts, jackass._

_BOOM. _The Quinjet stuttered wildly as a burst of azure fire erupted from the scepter and slammed into one side; the control panels shook for a moment, screens flickering like candles in the wind.

_Son of a...!_

A sharp cry of surprise from down below abruptly cut off the train of thought before the insult could be finished; peering down, Clint watched in surprised, vicious glee as Thor lunged forward and tackled his adoptive sibling to the ground with an earth-shaking _thud._

Natasha, meanwhile, had a more pressing issue to contend with: the Quinjet had caught fire. Yanking on her partner's shoulder to redirect his attention, she pointed wordlessly to the steering wheel. Nodding, he reached out and pulled up one wing of the jet, letting the aircraft spin, then gradually slow. The Quinjet fell through the air, passing skyscrapers and high-rise buildings in a blur of metallic hues before finally slamming into the street.

* * *

Slightly dazed from the crash, Natasha shook her head for a moment to clear the floating lights from her eyes, then did a quick check for injuries, first for herself, then the others onboard.

Satisfied that all was adequate for the moment, she turned to Clint, wordlessly asking _Fit for duty? _

Sharp eyes stared back, thankfully clear and calm, and bright with determination. _As I'll ever be. _

They unbuckled their seat-belts, checked for the utility of their on-hand weapons one last time, and opened up the ramp. Steve darted out, shield gleaming on one arm, and they silently followed, guns loaded and bow strung with an incendiary arrow notched in place and ready to fly.

* * *

The streets were mercifully clear of civilians, having been evacuated some time earlier with help from the local police and incoming military.

Moving rapidly, they approached the center of the street, gathering back to back with weapons drawn as worried eyes scanned the scene for potential dangers.

_It really shouldn't be this quiet in the middle of a war..._

A sudden abysmal, primal roar boomed out, echoing up and down the empty streets, and with it, a hulking shadow that fell over the area in a blanketing darkness.

* * *

The portal groaned under the weight of its load, stretching wider to accommodate the arrival of the newest horror: a colossal, cadaverous Chitauri leviathan, swollen with hundreds of soldiers and piles of ammunition.

Passing unknowingly over the trio of horrified humans in the streets below, it lumbered through the skies, maw gaping wide in a belligerent scream.

* * *

_Oh no._

They had _not _signed up for this. Steve looked at the hulking mass of bone and teeth and chitin leeching light out of the sky by merely _existing_, and wondered for a brief moment if staying frozen in the ice had really been so terrible.

Out of their element, Natasha and Clint fidgeted restlessly side by side, fingers pressed against pistol triggers and wrapping in agitation around bowstrings.

From either side of the massive flying warship, Chitauri soldiers clinging to the sides collectively let go, plunging down through the air and landing on the sides of nearby buildings; several crashed into some of the lower levels and began firing at the terrified civilians inside.

_Shit. _Steve threw his shield and knocked a Chitauri soldier off the side of the nearest building; when the projectile boomeranged back, he began repeating the process, fastidiously ignoring the gore that (rather fortunately seemed harmless, albeit disgusting) soon coated the edges when the shield sliced off alien limbs on the initial flight forward.

"Stark, can you hear me? Are you seeing any of this?"

Tony's voice crackled to life over the intercom, tinted with a hint of biting sharpness. "I'm seeing, Capsicle, but I'm still working on the believing part. Where's Banner, by the way? Has he shown up to the party yet?"

Steve blinked in confusion. "Doctor Banner? Last I heard, we lost contact with him after the Helicarrier got damaged."

A low sigh of irritated resignation issued through the link. "Fine, just keep me posted, okay? J.A.R.V.I.S., buddy, find me a soft spot, I've got too many missiles not to use right now."

Overhead, the Iron Man suit soared toward the alien airship; Steve watched for a moment, taking in the sight of Tony quietly flying behind the Chitauri leviathan, keeping pace parallel to its lumbering bulk and hiding in the spacecraft's gargantuan shadow.

* * *

Loki clenched his hands into fists, wishing, not for the first time, to throw the scepter as far away as possible; at this moment, preferably off the top of the Tower.

Thor had gained the upper hand with that full-body tackle from earlier, and now had apparently decided that the best way to handle the situation was to forcibly direct his adoptive sibling's gaze to the destruction below, and see if making him watch the city burn to ashes would evoke a change in desires. Muscular hands pressed forcefully down, holding him in place as, far down below, the smoke of ignited buildings and the distant shrieks of the horrified populace issued up like sulfur fumes from a primordial pit.

"Look at this, all of it!" Fingers dug into the back of his neck, yanking sharply on jagged curls of hair as if the pain might clear away the madness. "Look around you, for _this _is what you've given them! Do you really think that this madness will end with your rule? That this is what they want from those from the other Realms?"

He tried, for a brief moment to tear his gaze away, wishing the smoke didn't burn his eyes so much. _I can almosst believe you're being thiss densse on purposse. In all the yearss that we have endured together, did you really learn sso little about me to think that I would want **thiss **for my apparent kingdom? That I would willingly work with thosse thingss brought through the portal, when you have known all our livess that I am a creature of ssolace and sstealth, not brute force and dramaticss like our peerss? __I told you upon the BiFrosst before that I never wanted the throne, and thiss iss further proof of it. Never have I turned sso drasstically from your percieved image of me than ssince you were banisshed and I wass told by the Allfather that my undersstanding of my own exisstance wass a terrible lie. Have you truly been sso blinded all thesse yearss that you cannot even see that thiss iss too unlike me to be without a reasson? Any reasson? I can change my sskin within a blink of an eye if I sso choosse, but that doess not mean that I can change my very esssence, all that makess me mysself, on ssuch a whim!_

The symbiote, sparking with mental quivers of bloody scarlet rage, held out several tendrils behind the thunder god's back, ready to strike if the fingers pressing down tried to dig in any further, and Loki decided to speak up before his other half decided to kill Thor on the spot for the bruises they could both feel forming already on pallid skin._  
_

Perhaps, just perhaps, his not-brother might understand. _You were not alwayss sso sslow. Am I wrong to sstill have hope for you?_

"It'ss too late," he said quietly, "It'ss too late to sstop it now. You need to go, or thiss world will burn to ruin, and you will losse." _  
_

Thor's expression abruptly softened at the words, and he let go of the vice grip. Blue eyes stared earnestly at him, and Loki had to crush the sudden, jarring urge to cry at the hopeful eagerness in the other god's words. "No, it's not too late. We can still stop this. Together."

_I wass wrong...It sseemss lately that I'm alwayss wrong. We've grown up, and we're both too old for fairy taless. Do you truly believe I will be pardoned for thiss desstruction, that the Allfather will welcome me back with open armss for my actionss? Why do you inssisst on thiss willful ignorance, thiss mockery of defending me desspite the ruination I've unhappily brought here? Why do you give me chance after chance, yet refusse to lissten when I try to explain, hit me before I can even try? Damn you. _

He looked into the bright, trustful eyes, and felt his anger flaring back to life, the earlier embers of rage stoked back into flames. _You complete and utter fool._

Thor reached out; abruptly crushed against the other god's larger frame, Loki forcibly stifled the urge to struggle free at the gesture, knowing this was likely to be the last time he would receive such an embrace, and, for a small, brief second, let himself sink into the offered hold, memorizing the radiated heat, the unyielding armor, and the rough, uneven feeling of the scars from years past.

_Time to let go, before he growss ssusspiciouss. _

_Do we have to make him let go? _The symbiote rumbled in agitation, a hint of eagerness in the words; evidently, It was not fond of the prolonged contact with the god who had grabbed their vessel by the throat, tossed them into a mountainside, and tried to electrocute them on more than one occasion, all while vowing that he only wanted life to return to how it was _before _It and It's host had become one.

_It appearss sso. Try not to kill him, though. He'ss sstill important. _

A low growl of scarlet-tinged, champagne-golden affirmation, and Loki obligingly pulled back; offering a crooked smirk, he watched as the symbiote seized It's opportunity to strike, lunging forward in a whirling, twisting blade of jagged ebony, and slammed into place in the other god's side, slipping through flesh with unnerving ease.

For a brief, unsettling moment, Loki felt a dizzying sense of disorientation as the symbiote's tendrils puncturing through flesh was filtered through the mental link, emitting sharp, broken-glass photo-flicker sensations of _heatwetfleshhardbonessoftorgansbloodbloodblood _and mentally recoiled slightly at the burst of impressions. But there was no branching out of the cirri within the puncture site, nor had the blade pierced any vital organs, and he noted, with a sense of innate relief and gratitude, the meaning of that lack of action: by declaring Thor important enough to try not to kill, he also had deemed the thunder god inedible. The symbiote had responded in kind by ignoring the incessant urge to consume, even in such a tempting environment.

Pulling away, the blade withdrew, freshly coated in a rapidly disappearing sheen of blood, and Thor drew back in shock at the new injury, blue eyes wide with horrified surprise and rapidly growing pain as he fell over.

"Ssentiment, hmm?", he murmured, watching hands press instinctively against the bloodied wound in an effort to staunch the flow. "How many timess musst we fight, before you learn it iss not to your advantage?"

Thor looked up at him, eyes bright with horror and that maudlin glint of betrayal, and then that gaze hardened into cold sapphires; getting up off the patio surface, he lunged forward, kicking out and colliding a large, booted foot with his side in a sickening burst of pain. The symbiote let out a mental yowl of indignation at the sudden blow; Thor seized his adoptive sibling's body with both hands, lifting the rail-thin form overhead, but the symbiote's rage at the damage done left the catsuit adapting to the situation with rapid-fire efficiency.

The shadowy surface suddenly became slicker, more waxy, and the thunder god's grip became precarious; trying to maintain a handhold, his grip tightened, and then Loki cursed inwardly as he was thrown down against the concrete, landing close to the edge of the patio terrace. Fire raced up his side, a white-hot pain lancing through flesh, and he realized through a haze of agony that something had broken. Pressing a hand to the injured area, his fingers, when drawn away, came back covered in scarlet. _Damn. _

The symbiote hissed in displeasure at the sight of the blood, tendrils branching out internally to begin repair work.

But, despite his other half's rather admirable handiwork, he still had no time to waste by lying prone on the ground; Thor was still coming at him, Mjolnir raised high, and he needed to leave, or risk further damage. With luck, the thunderer would take his boiling rage out on the nearest wave of Chitauri once he left.

Rolling over the edge, he took a split second to quell the upsurge of uneasy nausea at the high drop, and let himself fall.

The wind whistled in his ears as he plummeted, and Thor could be seen, briefly, as a rapidly shrinking gold-topped blur up on the roof. Twisting around, he cast his gaze about for a possible anchor or method of transport.

To teleport using magic would be dangerous in the current situation; Loki had no intention of advancing this far in the game, only to die by transporting himself while in free-fall and ending up as a smear on the sidewalk or plastered against the nearest building in bloody chunks.

Looking around, he spotted one of the closer Chitauri flitting by on a chariot, and inwardly sighed in resignation. _It'ss not the mosst dignified mode of passsage, but it will do for thiss venture. _

Raising the scepter high, he fired off a shot, and the Chitauri riding the chariot was unceremoniously blasted off in a burst of azure energy, screeching as the chariot tilted and dropped its passenger. Loki watched, unrepentant, as the descending greyish figure shrank down to pinprick size, presumably dying on impact with the rather sharp-looking spire atop the skyscraper down below.

Reaching out with his magic, the chariot was summoned forth, and he stepped on, grasping the controls. _Time to end thiss._

The chariot shot off in a burst of speed, wind shrieking high all around, and the symbiote rippled in flaring bursts of agitated, quivering ebony needles, letting out a mental hiss of maroon-tinged disgust at the sight of dozens of Chitauri following the stolen hovercraft. _Want to watch them crassh and burn._

The idea _was _rather tempting... _Let'ss_ losse them by flying too closse to ssome of the buildingss. Perhapss we'll get lucky and they'll bursst into flamess on impact too. __


	10. O War, Thou art Facing Dissolution

**A/N: NOTE #1: This is it, folks. The grand finale, the final battle, the last stand, etc. The stage's been set, our chess-pieces are in place, and the spotlights are searing hot as they shine down and browbeat the characters here into complying with this story. As a certain genius billionaire playboy philanthropist once said, "Drop your socks and grab your crocs, we're about to get wet on this ride." We'll be wrapping up the invasion in it's entirety in the next chapter, so if you please, stay tuned!**

**NOTE #2: Again, the script/film plotline seems to be missing yet another segway moment to explain things, so I've added another transitional scene to flesh it out a bit. Please try not to hunt me down and smash me into the floor. Also, given that Loki does not actually have the scepter on hand with him when he crashes into Tony's penthouse right before getting smashed by the Hulk, but he does have it while he was chasing Natasha across the sky, I can only assume that it somehow fell down off the chariot when Clint's explosive arrow exploded in his hand and knocked him clean out of the sky, and in all the confusion, he either forgot to grab it, or purposely decided to leave it, given that the invasion's success was already somewhat "up in the air" by that point****.. Thus, the "glowstick of destiny" dropped, landed in the city, and, in a rather convenient but nonetheless very useful landing, ended up in the right place needed for Natasha and Dr. Selvig to find it and **** use it to shut down the portal later on, thus terminating the link between the two points and leaving the invasion force to collapse like a house of cards.**

****This chapter has been brought to you by a lovely time spent at a local museum, complete with learning about the grim incredibility of dermestidae beetles (used in taxidermy, criminal investigations, and cleaning animal skeletons for exhibit displays, it's rather gross, but then, most neat things in science are) ****and getting the bizarre euphoria of being able to hold a real person's skull that's part of the preserved-specimen section (locally donated as an old anatomy teaching aid and fully sterilized for the public, of course) in my hands and feeling, "Yep, this is it, and it's completely _awesome_. My field of work, right here." And yes, there was a reenactment of Shakespeare's _Hamlet _involved with the handling of said skull. I couldn't resist.****

**DISCLAIMER: As usual, I own nothing financially profitable (that is to say, anything that looks even _remotely_ cool and/or official) of _Marvel _or Norse mythology, etc., be it phrases/paraphrases, pop cultural references, characters, locations, powers, etc. I also do not own the Greek mythology reference. It's a storage jar, people, not an actual box, despite the popular misnomer. Nor do I own the _Doctor Who _reference.**

**WARNING: The usual level of gore, foul language, semi-graphic violence, dark/morbid humor, unaccounted-for cannon-fodder deaths, and, in this case, mention of guns, more explosions...and smashing. Lots and lots of smashing, and we all know the symbiote will _not _be happy about that last bit...It will give no second chances for first-impression meetings.**

* * *

The air was ablaze with sound as they hurried through the streets, passing upended cars, blown apart fire hydrants, and chunks of sidewalk. Fires had started in several ruined vehicles, and the smoke wafted through the air in an uneven, greyish haze that cast everything in a blanket of heat. Every so often, another car would get blasted, or another window in a nearby building would shatter, and glass would burst apart in a sparkling shower or razor-sharp diamond-bright shrapnel.

Every hair on the back of Steve's neck stood on end with unease as Loki tore through the air above them, the scepter shooting a chain of neon energy bolts down like a hail of fire. Cars blew apart, people were running, tripping, screaming, sobbing wildly as they stumbled and ran from the scene, clothes torn and sporting various injuries. He wondered if the madman flying up above even cared that at least a half-dozen Chitauri were unfortunate enough to be hit with the scepter's rain of azure power in the process as they soared down toward the civilians, and, instead of increasing the human death toll, were shot and left to drop, bodies smoking and riddled with dozens of new holes, to the street below.

Steve looked down from the bridge, watching the oncoming hoards of terrified civilians surging forwards with concern. "We need to do something about this, those people need help down there..."

Dodging another bolt from a Chitauri energy rifle, Natasha pulled out both pistols strapped to her belt and fired off several rounds of bullets into the nearest wave of enemy soldiers. Wiping away a small trickle of sweat from her forehead, she turned to face him and said sharply, "Don't just stand there and gawk, then. We've got this covered. Go!"

Without missing a beat, she fired again; a guttural shriek rent the air as a Chitauri soldier dropped. Satisfied that the situation was in control, he turned to Clint for a final bit of clarification. "You think you can hold them off for a while?"

Nimble fingers flicked the trigger on the bow; an arrow, chosen and slotted into place within a split second, shot free with an echoing _thwaakkkkk, _slamming into the muzzle of a nearby enemy gun and plugging it. A moment of overload later, and the weapon burst apart in an explosion of alien pseudo-shrapnel and energy, tearing into greyish flesh and leaving unearthly screams ringing in the ears of all those present.

Evidently grimly appeased by the sound, Clint turned to Steve and nodded, a dark grin twisting up one corner of his mouth. "Kill off _more_ of these things? It would be my genuine pleasure." Another arrow flew, this time tipped with explosives, and he tracked the potential carnage of the projectile with a grisly certainty.

The arrow ripped through the nearest Chitauri soldier's head in a blowout of unnatural gore, and Steve, offering a grateful nod to the archer responsible, promptly seized the opportunity the death presented to leap off the bridge, falling down through the air as another explosion followed.

Racing over the plaza, he inwardly wished, not for the first time, that the gargantuan city didn't have so many cars. As it was, leaping over them to save time maneuvering between them on foot in the vehicle-clustered streets was easier, but the Chitauri blasting them apart in an attempt to hit him made hurrying considerably more difficult.

* * *

Clint stared at the large school bus, fully occupied by dozens of terrified civilians, and felt a brief, burning urge to slam his head into the nearest wall, repeatedly. _Dammit, when I was told the streets were evacuated, I thought it meant **evacuated!**_

Letting out a sigh, he sprinted forward, taking in the dismal sight of the children trapped inside, clutched in their parents' arms in terror. _Gotta get them out, fast. Those damn aliens are coming, and they've got no chance sitting trapped in that thing. You might as well paint a giant bull's-eye on it, it's so bright.  
_

The door was jammed when he got to it, but opened up easily enough when hit a few times. Pulling it open, he stood back and pointed to the nearest pathway out of the mess of cars. Parents and children poured out of the bus in droves, running into the maze of vehicles with tiny hands clasped tightly to larger ones. A few stopped long enough to offer watery smiles and anxious thanks before taking off.

Behind him, clips emptying themselves into the hides of the nearest wave of alien invaders, Natasha stood like a statue of marble, beautiful and immobile as the snowy winter mountains. Her gun emptied, she slammed it sharply into the nearest enemy skull, swinging out one slim foot to kick the head in like a rotted watermelon. Bright eyes flicked over to him for a split second, glittering with the fire of battle and the familiar, reassuring shadow of familiarity, veiled from plain sight but as ever-present and high-functioning as the organs that powered their bodies to be maximum-efficiency espionage machines.

"Just like Budapest all over again, hmm?" The question was tinged with the barest hint of nostalgia, but considering that she was rarely, if ever, one for overt displays of sentiment, the wistful tinge to the words was more than enough for expression.

A grin formed at his partner's words, the remembrance of their infamous mission dredging up a feeling of amusement as he let out a chuckle and another round of deadly arrows. "You and I remember Budapest _very _differently, Nat..."

* * *

It was clearly the end of the world. He only wished that it had been zombies instead of aliens. Zombies he could prepare for. Aliens? There were far too many species of those to even _try _preparing for.

Firing off another round of bullets, the young officer cursed sharply as he reloaded in the shadows of an overturned car. _Dammit all to hell, this isn't going to work! These bullets are as useless against aliens as they are in the action movies!_

He turned to his police sergeant, wishing there was something, _anything _more useful he could do than ineffectually shoot at the things descending upon the city like a plague of airbourne spores of disease. "Sir, we need to get out, this isn't doing anything! They gotta bring in the National Guard!"

The look of grim dismay on the other man's face caused his innards, for a sickening moment, to feel as if they'd been dropped out of his body. "The National Guard? Hell, does the army even _know _what's happening out here?"

He swallowed, the uncomfortable lump in his throat burning like a mouthful of hot peppers. "Do _we_, Sir? This isn't exactly our division, here."

For a moment, there was no answer, save for the howling of the wind and the distant screams of the civilian populace, and then a sharp _thud _shook the air as someone in the most blinding colours on the block landed in front of them.

He blinked, staring up in surprise at the sight before him; beside him, his superior officer stared, open-mouthed with eyes wide. _That's...that's..._

The apparent hallucination paid their shock no heed. "Sorry for the sudden drop in, but I need men in these buildings, _pronto. _There's too many people inside that could run into the line of fire. You need to take them through either the basement or through the subway, but keep them off the streets, got it? I need to get a perimeter as far back as 39th _now_."

He resisted the urge to hang his head in frustration as his police sergeant's expression grew angry, a sure sign of annoyance at the sudden order. "Ah huh, I don't think so, sonny. Why the hell should I be taking orders from _you_?"

An explosion burst into life behind them, accompanied by an energy blast from a nearby alien rifle, and the shield rose up automatically to block it, leaving the flames to burn harmlessly against the gleaming surface and scatter into nothing but fading sparks.

Angered by the deflection of the attack, several Chitauri soldiers advanced in a streak of rotting grey flesh and screeching yowls, rifles raised and ready to fire off again. A quick exchange of kicks, punches, and rough jabs to the head later, and those same aliens lay in a battered heap on the ground, heavily bruised and missing both their rifles and several chunks of armor.

The brief scuffle thus ended, blue eyes moved away from the grimly satisfying sight to look at them in a silent question of _Anything else I need to prove? _

There was an audible swallowing noise, he noted, that the sergeant emitted before managing to turn to those gathered and barking out sharply, "You heard the man! I need men in these buildings ASAP! Get them down and away from the streets as much as possible, we need to form a perimeter as far as 39th!"

_Damn, first aliens, then Captain freaking America, and now Sarge is actually taking orders? Looks like the kooks were right, we're going out with a bang on a Thursday after all..._

* * *

The sky line was flooded with hundreds of flying chariots and bolts of sizzling plasma energy. Tony wondered, somewhat idly, when one of them would actually hit him.

_So far, so good. Huge numbers, but also absolute crap at aiming. _

Swerving around the nearest oncoming high-rise building, he turned and surveyed his quarry. Unaware of the small human presence hiding behind it's shadow, the enourmous, lumbering Chitauri leviathan screeched as it flew overhead, a rumbling, booming hiss that echoed through the air and left the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

_Alright, let's see what we've got to work with..._

Opening up one of his smaller multiple-rocket launchers, he took aim and fired. _C'mon, do something, anything...!_

The missiles, almost pitifully small in comparison to their alien target, slammed into slate and bone-coloured chitin with a series of tiny bursts of explosions, and the leviathan let out an earsplitting roar of annoyance, turning to him with the cold, single-minded intent of a predator about to crush it's newly-sighted prey into a pile of bloody splinters.

_Damn, it actually worked. Okay, time to high-tail it out of here before it decides to eat me. _

The communications network flared to life onscreen inside the suit helmet in a burst of red and blue. "Well, J.A.R.V.I.S., looks like we've got his attention. Now, if you don't mind, _what the hell is step two!?_"

In response, a map opened up onscreen, highlighting a path between the city's upper buildings and the zooming ranks of dusky alien soldiers and battleships. **_"Sir, I believe the most appropriate term to use would be to, and I quote, "Get the hell out of Dodge."_****  
**

_Right, then. Good plan._ He looked up at the incoming mass of unnatural bony flesh, jagged teeth and frigid, beady eyes zeroing in on him, and tore off through the sky, flying so fast as to appear as a streak of burnt gold and scarlet tearing a lengthening rip through the heavens.

* * *

The street had been evacuated, but no matter how many Chitauri were disposed of, more kept coming in replacement of their fallen ranks, unceasing and unyielding in both numbers and brutality.

He would almost hate it, if not for the fact that the rising kill count concerning the alien dead was almost disgustingly satisfying to increase.

Tripping up another soldier, he whipped an arrow out of the quiver on his back and promptly rammed the projectile down the alien's throat, tearing through the delicate inner tissues with a brutal efficiency. _One more tally mark for me, then._

He wondered how Natasha was doing. _Is her score higher than mine yet? __  
_

For once, he was inclined to, at the very least, doubt it. His partner may be ruthless when it came to dispatching the opposition quickly, efficiently, and often creatively, but she did not have the dubious incentive of a burning desire to slaughter every last damnable piece of walking alien filth that had, less than a day ago, been considered the _proper _side to be on in this chaotic conflict between Earth's clashing native and invading forces.

Ducking to avoid an energy blast that would otherwise have torn a fist-sized chunk out of his shoulder, he turned to watch Natasha seize an energy rifle from the slowly cooling fresh corpse at her feet, then use it to fire off a half-dozen bolts of boiling-hot power into the dead alien's fellow soldiers in a quick, fluid flourish of movement. The newly-slaughtered Chitauri dropped like sacks of wet cement, and when another tried to attack her from behind, she slammed the butt of the rifle into the sunken abdomen, flipped the weapon over, and then shot twice at point-blank range.

The alien dropped, dead from a new head wound the size of a dinner plate oozing blood and liquefied brain tissue, and she straightened up, watching the smoke leak from the muzzle of her new plaything with a calm, considering air.

_Yep,_ he decided, _definitely higher._

Steve had rejoined the fight only moments before, having gotten help in clearing out the nearby buildings of any remaining bystanders, and had taken to combat with the blunt, no-nonsense air of a man resigned to war, and resolved to doing to his best to help end it quickly. His shield, gleaming dully with a sickly coating of Chitauri gore, ricocheted back and forth in a dizzying blur of gruesome movement, slicing neatly through enemy limbs and severing heads from necks as if cutting through paper.

The air was irritatingly overheated, reeking of blood and carnage, and every breath stung as it passed back and forth into and out of tired lungs.

Natasha, having run out of bullets, was relying on the energy rifle and her own hand-to-hand combat skills to take down her opponents, but there was only so many times one could blast apart your enemy before you ran out of options. Back to back with Clint, she eyed her partner's dwindling supply of arrows and wondered how long they had left.

Steve slammed his shield down on another Chitauri's head, ignoring the ugly, gurgling _crack _as the skull caved in like a rotting watermelon from the blow, and aimed to throw it again. To his dismay, there was a fresh wave arriving, and it was going to be next to impossible to use his shield as a workable projectile in the long-term with so many bodies to block the return path. _Damn it, where's the cavalry when you need 'em?_

The answer came a split second later, in the form of a water-tower-sized bolt of lightning ripping through the air to slam down in a brutal explosion of power. An echoing _crash _of sound resonated around the block like the bells rung in a church, loud and pealing as a klaxon siren. Chitauri bodies flew every which way in a sickening splatter of gore and gristle; those who had been out of the initial blast radius were left convulsing violently for several moments as the lightning passed through flesh, before dropping to the ground, dead and occasionally twitching in postmortem spasms.

Thor landed in the midst of the grisly scene, aureate hair messier than usual from the wind; his cape, torn and singed in several places, fluttered in a swath of bloody fabric against his ankles like the quivering forms of hunting hounds, ready to be loosed upon some unfortunate burrow-dweller.

Steve approached the thunder god, a faint sense of relief slowly burning forth through the wall of the detached combative mindset from the earlier fight. "Good to see you, Thor. So, what's the story upstairs?"

Stormy blue eyes gazed back, haggard from battle and efforts at reconciliation. "Though I do not wish to be the bearer of unfortunate news, I cannot keep this secret. It is as we feared: the powers surrounding the cube are unyielding. The Tower remains an impenetrable fortress."

"Well, _that's_ a bummer," came Tony's voice from the communications network. The usually sturdy, cocky tone was laced with an air of both annoyance and resignation, crackling through the earpieces like broken glass crunching underfoot. "Thor's told us the bad news, but we still gotta deal with these guys before they turn the city into their personal intergalactic airport terminal here..."

"Then how do you suggest we do this?" Natasha cocked her new weapon in preparation for another round of battle, eyes scanning the newest batch of soldiers with an air of careful scrutiny.

Steve turned to look at her, shield thumping solidly against his side. "We need to work as a team."

Thor shook his head, fingers gripping Mjolnir tightly enough to leave veins bulging out visibly against tan skin. "I have unfinished business to settle with Loki."

Clint's eyes narrowed in barely restrained rage. "Yeah, well, you know what? Get in line, Earth's gonna have you wait-listed for the next century and a half, considering how many people got screwed by this."

Looking over the scene, Steve resisted the urge to hit something from frustration. _Remember your super-strength, Rogers. Remember that if you hit something, it'll probably break bone now. We can't have that right now. _

Forcing down the urge to shake his teammates until they stopped arguing, he muttered, "Look, just save it, alright? Loki's gonna keep this fight focused on us as much as possible, and we need to capitalize on that. Without him, those things are nuts enough that they could run wild. Now, let's see, we've got Stark up top, and he's gonna need us to..."

He trailed off in surprise as the faint but steadily increasing rumble of a motorbike resonated throughout the wreckage of the city block.

All eyes turned in a collective fit of curiosity, taking in arguably the most surreal sight since the portal began spewing aliens: Bruce, clad in some clearly-borrowed civilian clothing, driving up on a motorbike to the wreckage of the smashed car right in front of them. His expression lacked some of its accustomed world-weary exhaustion, and his eyes were reassuringly bright and clear.

Curly hair blew into tangled snarls of dark brown from the wind as the gamma radiation scientist took in the scene of ruination with an almost insulting air of calm. "Well," he remarked dryly, "This all seems to be rather horrible."

Natasha's gaze met his, a dark-humored smile quirking up the edges of her mouth into a bittersweet half-smirk. "Trust me, I've seen worse than this."

He rubbed the back of his head with one hand, expression somewhat sheepish. "Erm, sorry?"

She shook her head, hair swishing like a spray of fresh blood. "No, don't worry about it. As a matter of fact, we probably could use a little worse right about now."

"What about Stark? We've got him," Steve offered.

Tony's voice crackled over the intercom, indignant. "Hey, I resent that! What about Banner?"

He let out a gusty sigh before answering. "Just like you said." _Just don't be a braggart about it. _

The intercom burbled again as Tony spoke up again. "Alright, then tell him to suit up and get ready to rumble. I'm bringing the party to you."

A moment of quiet flooded the air, and then Tony darted out from behind the tallest building on the block, the streak of red and gold tearing through the air in an effort to stay out of reach of the Chitauri leviathan's gaping, hungry maw as it flew behind, impatiently snapping gargantuan jaws at the much smaller figure weaving figure eights and circles around it in a dizzying show of evasion.

* * *

They looked up, weapons drawn and ready to fire, tension thrumming through their veins as they took in the bizarre sight.

Natasha fired off another shot from the rifle, knocking a Chitauri off it's chariot several stories up, before looking up at the sky in faint confusion as the leviathan smashed its way through the nearest high-rise office building. "I..I don't see how that's supposed to be a party..."

Tony flew abruptly downwards, soaring down the street in a flash, and the leviathan, true to form, followed suit, tearing down the length of the closed-in space and growling an earsplitting dirge of guttural rage.

Bruce, eyes widening at the cacophony of noise, turned around to observe the chase. "Oh, damn..."

Steve watched as the scientist began to walk toward the lumbering beast tearing apart the lower part of the block, and swallowed, wishing he didn't have to broach such a sensitive topic. "Dr. Banner, I hate to say it, but right now might just be a really good time for you to get angry..."

He forced himself not to react as the other man's dark eyes gazed back at him, filled with the sort of quiet determination he'd known in men who had walked to certain death on the battlefield, knowing they would face hell and yet willing to do so to earn the rest of their battalion a few days of precious time to regroup and recover.

"But don't you see?," and there's a smile on that worn face, faded and bittersweet but still there, "That's my little secret, Cap. I'm _always _a little angry. It just takes a little _push_ to get it rolling."

He rolled his shoulders, cracking stiff joints, and then green raced across his skin, wild and unrestrained. Bones creaked, teeth clacking together, and a guttural moan of pain was wrenched forth, an all-too human cry of muffled agony transforming into a howl that left ears ringing.

The Chitauri leviathan screeched as a huge, green hand slammed abruptly into its front, shattering chitin apart and knocking the behemoth of alien power into a tailspin.

Tony flew overhead, a rocket firing out from a launcher held in the plating of one arm. The projectile slammed into a soft spot made into the smashed armor plating of the living ship, and the leviathan burst apart in an earth-shattering scream of agony. Blood and bone and chunks of meat rained down onto the street, glazing the pavement like a new coating of stinking tar, sizzling and smoking upon impact.

Steve instinctively raised his shield, using it as an umbrella to block the worst of the unpleasant shower, and didn't object when both Clint and Natasha clustered close to huddle under the makeshift protective covering.

Up on the rooftops and clinging to the sides of upper-story buildings, the remaining Chitauri stared in silent horror at the sight of their ranks being demolished by the native forces. It was clear that the would-be place of conquest did not intend to make the invasion an easy one.

* * *

Loki watched the first wave crash and burn in a splatter of carnage and fire, drinking in the sight of the ensuing bloodbath as the rest followed in a burst of savage destruction.

Bodies hit the streets in a crushing blanket of rotting flesh, limbs severed or sprawled every which way and weapons smashed to pieces. Glassy, dark eyes stared emptily at the surrounding world, blank and cold as the Void that had held them like sins trapped in a too-small _pithos. _

_Sso many gone, gone, gone...! _The symbiote chanted the words with an almost childish glee, each syllable sharpened to a razor-edge clarity with shared disdain. Wickedly fierce agreement with his other half's observation of the destruction below welled up and burst forth in a wave of soothing warmth.

He looked to the portal, watching another spray of soldiers pour forth like tainted water from a poisoned well, and felt a cold smile settle into place. The symbiote curled against his fingers, tendrils pressing to each thin digit in an unspoken demand for attention as It watched the the opera of demolition below. The god obligingly rubbed the ebony surface, idly stroking the answering tendrils and tracing battle hymns into the malleable exterior covering as, together, they watched another leviathan burst apart in a shower of gore from several well-aimed bolts of lightning. Chitauri soldiers fell irregularly from blasts of electricity and several bouts of repulsor fire, dropping like smashed flies down from their chariots and footholds on the sides of tall buildings to land in shattered piles of chitin and gore below.

Gripping the scepter tightly, he poised the Mind Gem to face the gaping maw of the intergalactic gate, shuddering inwardly as the link opened up, and forced himself to speak, letting the words ring forth in a death knell with the help of an amplifying charm.

"It'ss time to end it. Ssend in the resst."

_Let them come hence to their deathss, let them dance to the tune of their own demisse. I will lead them into battle on a piper'ss fife of poissoned notess, for I promissed it to you, and I keep my promissess, all of them. They will burn to cinderss at the handss of thosse you wanted to offer to your lady love, and you will have your dead, and I will have my vengeance. _

* * *

The portal sang a gruesome march of death and destruction as it regurgitated more Chitauri and leviathans, the cold reaches of space warping in a silent cry of agony as the connective pathway between realms was stretched like a handful of saltwater taffy to accommodate the new arrivals.

The new ranks flitted through the air like clusters of arrows shot from a parapet, hurtling forward to ensure a slaughter of those down below.

* * *

They looked at the sky, buzzing with the horrors of outer space. Their weapons seemed pitifully outmatched in comparison.

Natasha cocked her new rifle, stance shifting impatiently from one foot to the next in a restrained, instinctive urge to run from the massive rush of incoming destruction. "Guys..."

Tony looked down at the remainder of the city's last resort in defense, and let out a sigh. "Call it in, Cap. We need info here."

Steve stared back at him for a moment, eyes narrowed as he assessed the other man's words, before something in his expression cleared and he turned, decision made. "Alright," he said sharply, looking to each of them in turn, "We've got to do something about the new arrivals, so until we can do something to close up the portal, we're gonna have to use containment to keep this from spreading any further. Barton," he pointed to the archer, eyes flickering up to the roof for a moment, "I want you on that roof up there, we need eyes on everything. Call out any patterns and strays, we'll take 'em out faster if they're predictable."

Turning his gaze upwards, he continued. "Stark, you've got the perimeter. If anything gets more than three blocks out, I need you to either turn it back, or turn it to ashes, got it?"

A nod, and he turned back to Clint, who had been looking at the rooftop with a look of faint puzzlement. "Well," he muttered as he turned to give Tony a pointed look, "all jokes aside, since I can't exactly _fly_ up there, mind giving me a bit of a lift here?"

"Right, then, I'm demoted to taxi service. Better clench up, Legolas, we're going flying." Armored hands reached out and seized muscled shoulders, and Clint let out a stream of curses as he was abruptly yanked from the ground and hauled into the air, deposited shortly on the rooftop with a _thud_.

Steve looked to Thor next, watching Mjolnir pass from hand to hand in a dizzying crackle of electrical energy, humming with raw, unbridled power. "Thor, you're the only one with enough power to shut it down, so you've got to bottleneck the portal, understand? Slow them down with your lightning, light the bastards up like dry firewood if it'll keep them from getting a foothold here."

Face set in grim determination, the thunder god nodded. Swinging Mjolnir overhead once, twice, three times, he flew away, a clap of echoing sound echoing after him as, overhead, the clouds thickened and darkened in preparation for a storm.

Looking to the remaining assassin, he felt his slowly eroding strength rise as he looked at the look of sharp, quiet calm on Natasha's face. "You and me, we're on the ground, so let's try to keep the fighting here. Ready to bust some more heads?"

The faint, but unmistakable smile back was answer enough.

"Alright then," he muttered to himself, "just one more thing to do." Looking to the mountain of green muscle shaking slightly in anticipation, he let the last of his reservations go, and pointed a finger at the oncoming hoard of Chitauri. "And Hulk? It'd be really helpful if you'd go _smash._"

A massive smile, almost-but-not-quite terrifying in its blinding sharpness, greeted the request, and with that, the Hulk ran forward and took a great leap up, slamming into the upper stories of a gigantic high-rise office building and running up the length of it in great, towering strides, throwing off several Chitauri soldiers clinging to the side of the building in the process.

Chipping away at their own wave of enemies with grim, bloodied determination, Steve and Natasha watched in silent awe as the gargantuan mountain of muscle launched himself from building to building in huge leaps, as if jumping off a diving board, and threw handfuls of struggling Chitauri soldiers back at their fellows as if lobbing a series of dodgeballs. The alien warriors screeched and fired at him, and in response, the Hulk reached out with meaty hands, crushing the smaller bodies like cockroaches, and threw them down shortly afterward just to begin again.

After a few moments, he seemed to tire of that too, and instead took a huge leap into the air, arriving in the center of a buzzing Chitauri airspace filled with countless leering leviathans and cold-eyed soldiers, and began brutally smacking at the nearest batch of warriors as he fell back to the ground.

* * *

Thor clung to the gigantic glass tower with as much strength as he could, gripping the unstable surface with thick fingers as the wind whipped faster around the Empire State Building like a miniature cyclone.

Raising Mjolnir high overhead, he reached out for the crackling power he had known for so long it was as natural to him as the need for breathing. The lightning sang a gleeful cry in response, surging downwards to slam into the enchanted weapon in a blinding explosion of bone-white flame and eardrum-bursting sound.

_KABOOM. _The massive, glowing white shockwave was directed toward the portal as Thor pointed Mjolnir like a symphony conductor's baton, and the channeled energy, superheating like the strung out webbing of a liquefied, molten sun, was fired at the Chitauri flying out of the gaping intergalactic entryway. The incoming soldiers and ships were blasted back in a vicious, resounding shockwave, convulsing horribly in twitching death-throes, and several of the nearest leviathans even exploded. Gore rained down upon the city in a shower of blood, guts, and splintered bone fragments.

* * *

The Helicarrier bridge was abuzz with activity; dozens of Agents ran back and forth in dizzying blurs of motion, trading information as fast as they could. Fury stared at his viewscreen, taking in the incredible, terrifying sight of the destruction of the city below them.

Agent Hill walked up to him, an uneasy look in her normally calm, confident gaze as she said, "Sir, the Council is on, and they've requested an audience with you."

_Dammit. _He pressed the screen and waited for the proverbial axe to fall, wishing to be anywhere else.

* * *

Clint fired off another round of arrows into the stream of incoming Chitauri, watching with grim satisfaction as each one fell to the ground, clutching futilely at the embedded shafts in an attempt to pull the projectiles free. _Wait for it, wait for it..._

The sound of splattering gore pierced the air in a gruesome, guttural echo as the heads of the arrows detonated, releasing small explosives, bursts of incendiary fire, and at least half a dozen noxious gases. The aliens screeched in agony as they died, and he felt the broken bits of his recovered mind slowly start to piece back together at the awful, wonderful sight.

_Bye-bye, you intergalactic assholes._

Readying another shot, he aimed behind himself this time, letting the arrow fly with a degree of grim contentment, and the wail of pain that ensued as it detonated in Chitauri flesh was a macabre symphony to his ears.

_Revenge, _he noted idly as he watched the newest wave burn down, _smells a helluva lot like bacon. _

But then, he had to admit, that was what burnt flesh smelled like after a good frying. His incendiary arrows had ensured that.

Looking up at the sky as the portal spat out another hoard for combat, sharp eyes narrowed as a particularly large cluster of soldiers flew after the red and gold blur firing off energy shots into a nearby leviathan. Tapping his earpiece, he spoke up. "Hey, Stark, hate to break it to ya, but you've got a lot of strings sticking to your tail out there. You might want to do something about that."

The earpiece crackled, and several curse words managed to come through in the process. "Shit. Just...try to keep them off the streets, okay?"

He let out a huff, wondering when his job had expanded to cleaning up the intergalactic stalkers of billionaires, before replying, "Well, at the very least they can't seem to bank worth a damn. Find a tight corner and keep your back covered. I'll try and pick off a few."

"Roger that." The sound of explosions from Tony's side of the communications network ended the conversation, and he turned his attention back to his position.

_Time to pick my next target._

True to his word, Tony flew in possibly the most confusing manner to be performed while evading an alien armada. Flitting into tight corners, flying through open parking garages and under bridges and tunnels, and sharply stopping in midair while close to several high-rise buildings left dozens to slam into unforgiving metal, brick, or concrete surfaces, and the ones smart enough to evade the obstacles were left as targets for the archer on the roof. Explosive arrow after explosive arrow rent the wave of aliens burning and run through, and within minutes, Tony was left flying unimpeded once more.

* * *

As he looked back the blissfully empty stretch of airspace behind him, Tony pulled up the communications network again, the edge of his muffled anxiety at the situation successfully dulled. "Well, nice call there, Robin Hood. What else have you got?"

Clint's voice-over burbled through the speakers. "Well, since I took out your little paparazzi fest back there, Thor's taking down a new squadron down on 6th..."

The corners of his lips turned upward into a smirk at the answer."What? And he didn't even invite _me_? Looks like I'll just have to gatecrash, then..."

* * *

The conference room was shaking.

_What the...? _Setting down her coffee, the office worker turned her attention to the flicker of movement the shaking sensation accompanied, and felt ice flood her veins at the sight that greeted her. Wordlessly, she pointed outside, and attention diverted itself accordingly; within moments, everyone had gotten up and stepped to the window, staring silently in open-mouthed shock.

A Chitauri leviathan, its huge body easily at least the size of the entire floor they were in, swam by like some monstrous, skeletal fish from the nightmarish bottom depths of the deep seas, maw opened wide in a horrifying screech as its thick, bony, paddle-like fins undulated like a set of unearthly oars, propelling it through the air.

_What...What is...that thing...? _

* * *

For a long, uneasy moment, there was nothing but the sound of terrified, wheezy breathing and the distant sound of humming computer hubs, and, far off, an unanswered telephone, and then the glass of the largest viewing window shattered in a rain of diamond-bright fragments as a gigantic green figure crashed through it, landing on the floor with an earsplitting roar.

People screamed and ran, diving out of the way or seizing others by the hand to drag out of the room as the Hulk ran through the area, smashing through office cubicles, chairs, and a copying machine before ramming his way through the opposite window, leaping out to land on the opened jaw of the flying leviathan. The mass of hungry teeth tried to close around the smaller figure as the leviathan headed down, the gigantic bony head waving back and forth wildly in an attempt to dislodge the impromptu passenger.

* * *

The Chitauri soldier fighting her was slightly less prone to dying that the rest, and Natasha felt a sliver of irritation dig under her skin as she was knocked to her feet by a thick grey leg slamming into her left side. The energy rifle she'd procured earlier from one of the corpses dropped from her hands in the process, and she hissed inwardly in aggravation.

_This is taking too long. _If she focused on only one opponent in this situation, they would all pile up into an unmanageable amount, and then she would wear herself out entirely trying to take them all down. If even one of their ragtag group of cobbled together defenders dropped, the city would be unable to withstand the assault.

That was not an option.

Making up her mind, she lunged forward, sliding a knife free from her sleeves, and the Chitauri barely had time to widen dark, fathomless eyes in shock as she slit the throat before her in a sharp, fluid flick of the wrist.

The body dropped to the ground with a meaty _thud. _When another sound, this time of approaching feet, echoed behind her, she wasted no time in seizing her looted weapon and spinning around, ready to fire and tear a new series of holes into the nearest enemy, when surprised blue eyes stopped her. Automatically, she took her finger off the trigger and regarded the man before her, taking in the freshly battered appearance, and slumped a bit, feeling ignored exhaustion come creeping back up.

"Don't...don't sneak up on me," she muttered, and the nod she received in response left no doubts that he understood.

Looking at the tired slump of the man's shoulders, she felt bitter certainty burning her mouth, and spat it out before it could percolate further. "Cap, I hate to say this, but none of this is going to mean a damn thing in the end if we don't close up that portal soon."

"Yeah, well, tell me something I don't know. Our biggest guns couldn't touch that thing, Stark's missiles did squat on it. Heck, _Thor _couldn't close it."

The assassin looked to the sky, analyzing her companion's words. _There's always a weakness somewhere, just have to find it. _

Scanning the crowded airspace overhead, she felt an idea forming, and followed it, pointing to the nearest chariot whizzing overhead. "Well, maybe it's not about guns..."

Steve blinked, wondering for a moment if he'd heard wrong. "Well, no offense, but if you want to get up there, you'll be needing a ride. I don't see exactly any wings on you."

She grinned at him, the smile all teeth, and Steve fought down the sudden trickle of fear the almost wolfish look evoked. "Don't worry, I've got a ride. I _could_ use a bit of a lift, though."

_Well, _he conceded inwardly, _Mom told me it's impolite to refuse a lady's request..._

Natasha backed up, clearing space to give herself a running start, and he obligingly knelt down, lifting and angling his shield. _Let's hope this works. _

"Um, are you sure about this?", he asked, looking back and forth between the redhead at the end of the street, and the shield clasped to his arm. "I'm not sure you'll get enough speed..."

A laugh lit up the air, and then she ran at him, sprinting in a manner reminiscent of a wolf chasing down prey, and he resisted the urge to run as she shot forward in a blur of scarlet-topped shadow, running up and over a downed car and then jumping onto the offered surface of the shield like an acrobat. Steve lifted the shield into the air to give a better height advantage, and she promptly jumped up, grabbing onto the edge of a passing chariot overhead and slamming her knives into the back of the now-previous owner. When an agonized scream rent the air, she finished the chariot's takeover through giving a blunt shove off into empty air with a blunt kick to the midsection, cracking bone and leaving the body to drop to the street below.

* * *

He watched, intrigued, as they all dropped into place, taking up interconnected mantles of defensive and offensive responsibilities as they were best suited for. They scattered across the invaded metropolis, staking claims of chunks of the area under their protection and shredding to pieces anything that tried to take it away.

_They really are fighting tooth and claw for thiss little citadel, aren't they? They'll rip apart anything that triess to take their world away. _The thought was needle-sharp, and he pricked himself back into full alertness with the razor-fine edge of it, the pain serving as an unforgiving reminder that the hellish play, enacted with his bloodied fingers alongside the symbiote, howling for a slaking of their unending hunger, was now burgeoning on the gilded cusp of an almost indulgently bloody climax.

A flicker of movement caught his attention a dozen feet below, and the symbiote hissed in high-strung, blood-bright anticipation as the figure riding the chariot came into focus.

_Hmm, sso the little sspider hass taken to the sskiess, then..._

The symbiote crooned in anticipation, the urge to _movemovemove_ in such a chaotic environment almost overwhelming. _Follow? _

_Yess. _If all went as planned, the invasion would be crushed underfoot in perhaps a few hours, and he wanted to make the most of his last few moments of unfiltered, maddening freedom before being locked away in a prison cell. Why not put a few final embellishments on his act of madness, push it to the breaking point to see if this mask of confidence in a mountain of paper cards would hold together any further?

The thrumming in shared veins grew stronger, burning brightly as a thousand lit candles in the darkness closing in, heart racing like a galloping horse, a pulsing, raging _dadadadadadadada-_

_Time to play one lasst round. All the cardss are laid down, we only need to ssee what the final hand here iss._

The chariot shot forward, the symbiote shrieking with undisguised glee at the sudden heady rush of the chase, and he laughed, wild and unrestrained, the final rusted chains of fear dropping away to rot away quietly in the dust of forgotten, all-devouring time.

Today, one side would fall, one way or another. His fate was spinning out of control, the Thread pulled loose and yanking away to Norns knew where, but it didn't matter anymore.

He was not alone any longer. That made the falling worth it.

* * *

Flying the small alien aircraft was far easier than initially expected, she mused inwardly. _Although I could do without the tailgating. _

Swerving yet again to avoid another shot from an energy rifle, she turned the chariot, banking over a nearby high-rise building and hiding in the shadows of the billboard behind it. For a moment, she watched as Tony fired off a string of boiling-hot repulsor blasts into the Chitauri hoard that had been tailing her, blasting a dozen chariots, riders and all, apart in a slew of pseudo-shrapnel and newly deceased aliens.

Satisfied that the assassin's path was cleared, the billionaire flew down once more, blasting apart another half-dozen Chitauri hovercrafts as he went, and made his way to the only Avenger left fighting on the ground.

Steve, for his part, was doing a rather remarkable job in slicing apart Chitauri weapons as he threw his shield back and forth through the crowd of soldiers mobbing him. Almost completely obscured due to the sheer mass of bodies attempting to attack him, an occasional gloved hand or booted foot could be seen in a blur of reds or browns, slamming brutally into enemy flesh to deliver a potent roundhouse kick or punch to the softer parts of the enemy body with an audible _crunch_ as serum-enhanced flesh collided with an unprepared patch of skin or an eye socket.

Landing, Tony held out his hands in a silent question of _Need a hand?_

Blinking a bead of sweat out of his eyes, Steve held out his shield, posing it as a reflective circle in response, and Tony obligingly fired off several shots, watching as the white-hot bolts of energy flew out of the boosters in his suit to bounce off the shield's provided surface as a reflective beam of boiling heat, neatly redirected within seconds to rip into the nearest Chitauri soldier unfortunate enough to be within targeting range. The acrid stench of burning flesh permeated the air as the energy beam seared a sizzling pathway through the mob.

Up above, Clint was in his element, a one-man gale amidst a field of targets, and firing off one arrow after another in sharp, dizzying blurs of nimble finger movements dancing across his bow. The callouses on his hands would need to be bandaged later, and his fingers were becoming somewhat irritating to ignore, given that the blood seeping from the cut digits was leaving the bowstring and arrow shafts slick with slippery bits of ruby.

_Dammit, looks like I'll have to clean them again later. And I just refitted this equipment, too. _

He decided to take his frustration at the situation out on the nearest available target, and began looking for one accordingly while continuing to cut down the Chitauri whizzing past.

_Found one. _Tony was up in the air again, darting back and forth like a frighteningly large, obnoxiously bright-coloured dragonfly, firing off shots into a leviathan flying overhead. There was a Chitauri soldier tailing him, riding on a chariot and aiming a charged energy rifle for a shot-

_Oh no, you damn slimeball. Not on my watch, you don't. _

Firing off another arrow, he watched in grim satisfaction as the arrow shredded through the neck of the would-be assailant, and the alien's severed body pieces collapsed accordingly. The chariot, now bereft of a proper pilot, lost control and slammed into another passing Chitauri flying nearby, and the mass of metal and flesh went down in a flaming, tangled mess amid unearthly howls of pain.

_Gotcha._

* * *

The Chitauri leviathan screeched with rage as it tried stubbornly to dislodge the two unwelcome passengers hitching an unauthorized ride on its back, smashing scales, bone, and fighting the soldiers that were riding aboard for transport into the city.

Thor slammed Mjolnir into the back of the leviathan with a brutal _thwakkk, _shattering another spiny segment jutting out of flesh and causing another horrific scream to be unleashed as splinters of bone flew everywhere. The Hulk rampaged around nearby, slamming gargantuan moss-coloured fists into Chituari flesh and throwing the frantic soldiers off either side of the caterwauling airship.

A moment or so later, radioactive-green eyes spotted a piece of leviathan back-armor that had gotten pried loose in the process of stomping around and hurling off soldiers, and moments later, the Hulk gleefully seized the bit of armor available and yanked it sharply loose, slamming it forcefully down into the protruding spine as if ramming a shovel into the dirt.

The leviathan screamed loudly enough that several nearby skyscrapers had their top floor windows shatter in bursts of shining glass, and Thor took the opportunity to follow his fellow fighter's example, bringing Mjolnir down brutally onto the damaged spine as he summoned his lightning to aid in bringing down the beast they stood on.

Abruptly, the leviathan twisted frantically in the air, trying in vain to remove the source of the agony, and then it fell, plunging downward as it writhed and let out a wail of unholy misery, the lightning causing pain to radiate all throughout it's limbs and, in doing so, rendering flight impossible.

* * *

The ground shook wildly as the freshly damaged Chitauri leviathan made impact, slamming into the history museum with savage force and leaving a football field-sized crater of rubble and broken pipelines. It shuddered, letting out a final sickening rasp, and then was still.

Both the Hulk and Thor stood atop the mangled back of the felled creature, admiring their grisly handiwork with an air of grim pride.

After a moment, the Hulk offered a wide, almost childishly-proud grin, and punched Thor in the shoulder as if to say _Well done._

Thor went flying, a shout escaping him as he was thrown back, and the Hulk smirked at the sight.

* * *

Selvig looked up at the sky, eyes cleared of blue. The blow to the head he'd received when the CMS Device had shot at had broken the mind control as if shattering a glass cage, and now he was able to look upon the scene around him with his true eyes.

Confused, he cast his gaze around, hoping to find something to explain the situation. _What in the world happened here?_

* * *

The street was full of Humvees, all mounted with fully-loaded .50 caliber guns poised and firing steadily into the Chitauri riders zooming back and forth throughout the sky.

Steve, who was currently sharing space with the new, bullet-firing arrivals, kicked away the Chitauri soldier pinning him down with an energy rifle, shattering bone on contact as he drew back his arm and punched his opponent sharply in the shoulder. The rifle was dropped amidst a howl of pain, and he stood up, picking up his shield as he did so, and brought the round projectile down soundly on the available enemy head.

The alien soldier dropped like a sack of wet cement, falling to the ground with a sickening _crunch _as the skull caved in, and Steve turned away from the grim sight, shield hefted over one arm and ready to be thrown again at a moment's notice.

The communications network crackled to life, and Clint's voice burbled through the earpiece, a series of muffled _twangs _in the background signaling that another slew of arrows had been loosed to lodge in alien necks and eye sockets. "Hey Cap, if you don't mind, could you go up at the bank on 42nd, past Madison? They've caught a bunch of civilians over there."

He straightened up, fingers automatically checking the inside of the shield; the tiny pouch was still tucked securely away, zipped up tightly. Satisfied, he spoke into the earpiece.

"I'm on it."

* * *

Dozens of men and women were gathered, their expressions nervous and fearful, in the middle of the bank, hands held overhead in a clear show of disarmament. A half-dozen energy rifles were pointed at the huddling group of civilians, the Chitauri soldiers all wearing identical detached expressions, poised to pull the trigger and kill anyone who objected to the situation. Another one was in the far corner, arming and charging a bomb, the ominous device letting out a series of unsettling _beeps _as numbers were clocked in.

One of the hostages began crying softly, clearly frightened by the horrific, surreal situation, and was forcefully silenced when the closest energy rifle discharged, blasting a hole in the wall a mere few inches from her head.

Outside, Steve looked into at the dismal sight and fought the urge to hit something. _That's it, they're all going down. __  
_

He ran forward, bracing his shield in front of himself to keep from getting hit by any flying debris, and burst through the window with an echoing _crash. _Glass flew everywhere; the hostages shouted in terrified surprise, anticipating more hellish aliens, before promptly ceasing the frightened screams at the sight of their very much human rescuer.

Without pause, Steve got up from where he'd landed feet-first on the ground, swinging his arm forward and throwing his shield at the Chitauri bomber. The alien barely had time to look up as the sound of the fast-approaching projectile weapon came too close, and then the head was sliced off in a spray of dark blood. The body dropped, lifeless as a doll, and the other Chitauri uttered low hisses of rage, raising their energy rifles to fire, pulsating energy warping to life vividly in a sputtering burn of neon light.

Steve automatically moved; running to a nearby trading desk, he took cover under it for a moment, resisting the instinctive urge to flinch at the sensation of the desk rattling wildly, burning as new holes were blasted through it by the enemy fire, and then he reached out, picking the desk up as he stood, and then drop-kicked it like a football. The attacking soldiers jumped out of the way, and he seized the brief ceasefire as they dodged to run again, jumping over another desk and grabbing the nearest Chitauri in a crushing headlock.

The alien screeched in response, fingers clawing in vain at the super-strong grip, but he ignored the cry of protest, instead backhanding another soldier sharply off the railing outside. The crowd surged out of the way, clearing a space for him to move more freely.

_Got to subdue them before the bomb goes off-_

His train of thought was abruptly halted as another Chitauri soldier slunk forward from behind him, ripping off his helmet and pressing the muzzle of am energy rifle to his back, evidently ready to blast him apart at point-blank range.

The moment the cold, unnatural feeling of the unearthly metal pressed against the spandex of his uniform, he spun around, slamming a fist into the alien's face for a painful moment of disorientation, and then flipped the confused body over and brought down the shield, slamming the metal surface against the unprepared skull. The Chitauri went down, and Steve turned to the gathered civilians, a sickening feeling of dread pooling in his gut as the bomb's infernal beeping, clamoring in his ears, more resonant even than his own racing heartbeat, seemed to grow horrifyingly _louder_-

"Everyone, you need to clear out, _NOW!_"

Leaving the body of the dead alien on the floor, he straightened his shield, watching with silent relief as the former hostages ran for the door, several of them calling out rushed thanks as they did so, and he turned his attention to the bomb.

Blue eyes widened with a lurching sense of horror as the few numbers drained away into nothingness, and instinctively he reached out, though whether to smash the explosive or throw it, he wasn't sure. Off to the side, a low growl of protest issued forth, and he realized that one Chitauri was still left, still alive, and crawling toward the bomb-

_BOOM. _The explosive went off in a burst of flame and sound, shattering the rest of the bank windows, and Steve bit back a scream of pain as he was thrown clear through the window behind him, crashing painfully into the car parked below.

Down the street, the gathered civilians, full of euphoria from their rescue, looked on with concern before being ushered away by the police to the nearest safe building.

* * *

He would need to find some sort of ice pack for all the new bruises later, Steve mused inwardly, looking about in dismay at the ruination all around him as he gingerly rolled off the smashed car.

_My city..._ New York was damaged, battered fiercely by the onslaught of the invasion, and he ignored the brief stinging at the edges of his eyes. Crying would be useless now, he still had a job to do.

Brushing off bits of glass off his shield as he pulled it out of the demolished car, he watched, grateful for the brief respite of the horrors of combat, at the comforting sight of the rescued civilian group from bank being looked over by the newly arrived on-scene police and fireman, wrapped securely in shock blankets and offered calming words as they were examined for serious injuries.

He blinked in surprise as one of them, a young, pretty-looking woman in a waitress uniform, looked back at him and smiled softly, waving for a moment in silent thankfulness before turning her attention back on the officer questioning her about her state of well-being.

_Well, I wasn't expecting that. But_, he reflected as he began the trek back to the battlefield, _it sure makes a guy feel better to know he's done a good enough job to make a lady smile after the scare of a lifetime._

* * *

The Helicarrier bridge was riddled with a sickening sense of tension, burdening everyone onboard with a grim, leaden sensation in the gut and sweaty palms.

Fury looked calmly on as the viewscreen before him flared to life, the World Security Council appearing in a flicker of faintly condescending expressions and commanding airs.

"Director Fury," one of them spoke up, a woman with a stern expression and a severe haircut, "The Council has conferred over your situation, and has come to a decision."

He crossed his arms over his chest, leveling his gaze to display a glare that a lion would have faltered in the face of. "Oh, I recognize that the Council has made a decision, but given that it's a spectacularly stupid-ass decision, I've taken the smart route and elected to ignore it."

From all around the viewscreen, glowering faces scowled back, unwilling to back down. "Now see here, Director, you and your people are closer to the enemy than any of our subs, it's a clear choice. Now you scramble that jet..."

He shook his head, refusing to give in. "This is _the island of Manhattan_ you're talking about, Councilman. Millions of people are out there on that little rock. Now, until I'm absolutely certain that my team can't hold it, I will not, I repeat, _I will not _order a nuclear strike against a civilian population."

The Council burst into a flutter of protest at the answer, agitation clear on their faces. "Director, you must understand, if we don't hold them in the air, then we lose everything...!"

Fury stared back at the unnerved collection of representatives before him, unwilling to budge so much as a centimeter's worth of verbal ground on the subject. "I'd send that bird out, because we already have. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

He reached for the viewscreen, fingers poised to swipe the screen blank amid a cacophony of protests. "Director, do not..."

The screen went blank for a moment as he abruptly cut the call off, then reloaded as the standard viewscreen on the Bridge. Fury pinched his nose to stave off the incoming headache, and let out a long, gusty sigh.

_I hate politics._

* * *

The air was still thrumming with energy as Natasha flew high overhead, the tips of Manhattan's skyscrapers small as pinheads as she swerved deftly in and out of the mishmash of remaining Chitauri soldiers, firing off shots from her energy rifle to help thin out any encountered stragglers.

_These aliens are like a nest of fire ants, seemingly no end to them and they sting like crazy, but they crush so easily it's almost pathetic..._

A sudden searing pain ripped through her side as she flitted through the shadow of a tall, blocky office building, and she risked looking down at her side for a split second, only to see a strip of her side was now covered in a sizable, albeit comparatively moderate burn that had singed off the first layer of skin and hair, shallow but stinging wildly.

_Damn. _

She looked around, trying to spot the one who'd shot her, and when she managed to look behind, everything fell into place.

"Oh," she breathed out. "It's just you."

Loki, catsuit curling and flickering like a thick wraparound cloak of sleek raven's feathers, flew overhead, the scepter raised in one hand pulsing brightly with unnerving blue light.

She yanked the controls, letting the chariot drop downward, and, predictably, the god followed, tailing her as they wove in and out of the gaps in the skyline between the buildings and streets.

_C'mon, Clint, where are you?_

* * *

The rooftop was whirring with a hail of arrows firing off in all directions, embedding themselves in exposed flesh and metal indiscriminately.

Clint watched, apprehensive and slightly astonished, as his partner soared into view overhead, ruby curls whipping behind her like a stream of arterial blood as she dodged another shot of azure energy from the scepter.

"Dammit, Nat," he all but shouted into the earpiece, "What the hell are you _doing _up there?"

"Hold on a sec," her voice crackled back through the communications network, "Just..uh, a little help would be nice-!"

She abruptly cut off. There was a brief moment of nothing but howling wind to follow the sudden silence, and he automatically reached back, another explosive arrow notching into place with ease, and aimed it at her pursuer, locking onto his new target with grim anticipation.

_Arrow, this is eye socket. Eye socket, this is arrow. Let's be friends, hmm?_

"Don't worry, I've got him."

He smirked, and let go. The arrow streaked through the air, blurring in the wind, and...

_What the hell?_

Loki stared directly back at him, baring his teeth in a wolf's grin, sallow visage disappointingly intact. The arrow was clenched tightly in one sable-clad hand, obviously caught and halted in midair with the help of some unnatural feline-esque sharp reflexes.

_Wait for it, wait for it...c'mon, c'mon, c'mon...!_

The arrowhead's explosive payload abruptly detonated, blasting the shadow-wrapped god backward off the chariot, the scepter flying away as the lean figure was hurtled off by the force of the explosion, left to fall through the air, crashing brutally through the windows overlooking Stark Tower's penthouse roof landing pad.

Natasha watched for a moment before she braced herself, leaning back, and threw herself forward off her own chariot, jumping through empty air to land on the top of Stark Tower. After a moment to check for serious injuries, she rolled herself to the edge with a muffled grunt of pain, and settled in to wait.

* * *

They crashed through the thick glass window panel with sickening force, shattering it into ten thousand minuscule pieces as their shared vessel dropped to the ground, landing in an unkempt heap on the debris-strewn floor.

_Damn, that actually hurt. We losst the sscepter, too... _But that was of little consequence now. If the humans managed to get their hands on it, perhaps they could shut off the portal once the Chitauri had been sufficiently crushed, after all...

He scanned his shared form for new injuries, wincing inwardly as new pangs of affliction made themselves known in loud displays of surging pain. A collection of darkening bruises mottled both back and torso under the catsuit's protective surface, though the only broken bones yet seemed to be the shattered floating rib from Thor's earlier kick to the side, and that had already started to mend with both his magic and his companion's help.

_Hosst more hurt?, _the symbiote inquired, already branching out internally for additional healing. He shuddered slightly, and offered, _Not much, but yess. It'ss really more embarrasssing than truly harmful, and I had expected that the Hawk would sseek retribution for hiss time exissting under the Mind Gem'ss influence. Yet, to think that I let mysself be sso eassily caught off guard, it'ss a bit sshameful..._

_You expected an arrow to the face?_

_No, _he amended, smothering the strange, almost hysterical urge to laugh in the face of the attack they'd been dealt, _But I did expect he would be upsset to realize he'd been manipulated, even if it wass to a certain degree. _

Shaking off the haze of discombobulation trying to fog his agony-addled senses, he got to his feet, swaying for a moment as another bout of pain lanced through his side again. _We really sshould do ssomething about that, _he mused idly, _it will be an isssue if left untreated. _

_Hold sstill sso it can be fixed, then, _the symbiote muttered back, the words tinged with an somewhat chiding bite of pale reddish-orange, and he obligingly braced himself to reduce difficulty.

The moment of quiet was shattered when the Hulk leapt through the now glass-less penthouse window, roaring wildly, and before they can even properly react, a mossy-green leg the size of an adolescent oak tree swung back, and then pain ripped through their shared vessel anew as the dirty, gigantic foot slammed into their bad side with enough force to break cement.

_By the Nornss, not again...!_

Thrown roughly in the direction of the destroyed, gaping window, Loki bit back the scream of pain threatening to burst forth as he slammed sharply into the wall beside it, agitating the bruises coating his back further. A bead of blood welled up against his lips as the surface broke, and he tasted iron for a brief moment, dizzy and confused, as the symbiote's screams of outrage echoed wildly within the mindscape as a howling inferno of bloody whirlwinds-

The Hulk advanced, jumping forward to land with a meaty _thud _before them, anger in the bright, intense eyes as thick fingers flexed, ready to form into fists and begin a round of pummeling. He watched the action, and crushed the instinctive urge to flee, knowing it was useless.

_D-Damn, thiss really issn't what I anticipated..._

Shaking slightly, he forced his uncooperative body upright, standing, straight-backed in a pile of broken glass and torn up flooring, up against the wall.

_I need...I need to end it, one way or another, thiss musst sstop..._

He had always known how this chapter of woe would come to an end, he had helped craft it. Outside, the battle raged on, but the humans, instinct told him, were closer to victory. They had amassed a cooperative defensive force, and the CMS device had a safety built into it for an emergency shutdown, as Selvig had possessed enough sense, even with the Mind Gem's poisoned cooing, to ensure it's construction as a fail-safe should anything go wrong while the portal's creation was underway. If the humans could find that thrice-damned scepter, the machine would fall apart, and the Chitauri would be starved of the only entryway to the crossroads realm of the universe. Thanos would be left with the blistering humiliation of both the loss of hundreds of thousands of his troops, and the deprivation of his would-be gift to present to Death.

All that was left was to wrap up the loose ends.

_What are you going to do? _The symbiote watched the behemoth before them warily, eyeing the thick muscles, clenched teeth, and feral glint in the fiery eyes with unease.

_Remember how ssometimess I have ssome really brilliant ideass?_

_Yess...?_

_Ssorry._

Pressing his clawed fingertips into his palms hard enough to draw blood, the god focused on the brief moment of sharp pain before the cuts healed to help clear his conflicting thoughts and doubts away. _Thiss ought to get hiss attention._

He took a deep breath, straightening himself out to his full height, and stared right into the radioactive green eyes, twisting his words back for one last show of playing the mad fool. _I can only pray my voice doessn't break from fear. Thiss iss the mosst rassh thing I've ever done yet, and it jusst might kill me._

"_ENOUGH! _You are, all of you, every lasst one, beneath me! You sstand before a _god, _you dull, tactlesss creature, and I will _not _be bullied by...!"

_Thiss iss going to hurt, issn't it? _The symbiote's words were laced with the bitter tang of incredulous pale purple-tinged dismay, the _What were you thinking _hanging like a noose around the rhetorical question, ready to slip shut at a moment's notice.

_Yess, yess it iss. Brace yoursself...!_

A thick, muscular hand shot out like a snake striking at prey, fingers wrapping around one slim leg, and then the whole view of the world tilted on its head as their vessel was crudely yanked foot-first into the air, and then pain ripped through every last cell as they were slammed into the penthouse floor repeatedly, tossed back and forth like a rag doll to collide again and again with unforgiving cement and hardwood flooring.

The symbiote was a spitting mess of internal rage now, wild and mad as a tempest in a bottle, colours racing and bleeding across the mindscape, round and round in a crazed series of circles, and Loki, near delirious from overwhelming pain, could not discern the meaning through the fog of darkness encroaching upon the corners of his vision. A whimper escaped, though if it reached the ears of the one responsible for this new agony, he was unsure.

The fire of all-consuming torment grew white-hot, and then beyond it, but his voice would not mold the shreds of conscious thought into audible sound, it took too much effort. He shuddered, the darkness swimming closer. The slight, involuntary movement caught his other half's attention, and the symbiote stopped the raging wildfires of It's anger for a moment to croon to him, reaching out to envelop him in mental swaths of blissfully familiar quiet and cessation of all overwhelming sensation. He let himself sink into it, and then knew no more.

* * *

After a few agonizing moments, the Hulk abruptly let go, dropping the battered form to fall to the floor with a sickening_ crack_ belying broken bones, and turned to leave, scowling at the mess of ragged, unkempt shadow-made-flesh lying in the newly made wide crater, blood seeping out from new injuries. _  
_

"Puny god..."

He snorted, pleased to have silenced the persistent racket that the smaller figure had spouted, and began to walk toward the nearest exit, knowing that the fight was not yet over.

"You..._YOU...!"_

_Huh, what was that...? _He turned around and walked back to the crater, confused as to why there was someone speaking out of it when the only other person in the room was lying in a broken heap in the new indent in the floor, and then unwillingly froze at the sight before him.

Looking into the crater, the mauled figure lying supine in the wreckage was, slowly but surely, getting up, cracking the lean neck, then knuckles, as pummeled arms straightened out from their battered positions, bones audibly _schnnick-schnnacking _as they shifted and healed under a skin-tight sea of quickly regenerating sable. Bruises left to set deep into muscle, blanketing skin in sprawling, agonizing blooms of unruly deep violet and indigo hues, began to rapidly lighten, then vanish, like puddles of water drying up under the scorching desert sun. Tendrils rippled and twisted, reaching out to wrap round and round like a flurry of bandage rolls to envelop battered flesh. Muscles flexed visibly under the catsuit surface as claw-tipped fingers reached back to brush a thick mess of unruly, debris-clumped hair out of the way of a lean, sharp face with a cold, off-kilter expression, all jagged angles and razor edges like slivers of a bloody crescent moon.

A low, gurgling, wet hiss, and a mouthful of saliva was hacked onto the wrecked floor; tinged with pinpricks of scarlet, the wet sticky substance dropped onto the surface, a frighteningly sharp-looking tooth ensconced within the glob of altered spit. The figure responsible stared at the lost bit of dentition for a moment, evidently unconcerned, and slammed a slim foot down onto the remains, crushing the tooth into powder, and then looked up, staring frigidly back at him as, unnervingly, the lost tooth _grew back_ in place, bone-white canine pushing back into view with eerily quick precision, as if nothing had even occurred.

The eyes that stared out fearlessly from the gaunt visage were not green, nor were they laced with the unnatural blue tint of the Mind Gem's influence.

They were black, the same cold, light-leeching black as the catsuit, with a haunting, dizzying miasma of rainbow-slick colouring ringing the irises like a glimpse into an ancient kaleidoscope showing madness. There was no light in that gaze, it had been stripped of light, of warmth, of common courtesy.

The eyes staring back at him were not the eyes of the so-called _Puny God. _The eyes staring back at him were the eyes of _something else, _a gaze of something that shared every last bit of that lean, bony vessel and had claimed it as _Mine. _

As the puny man he himself shared a body with might have assessed the situation, the eyes staring at him were of _Puny God's _very own _Other Guy. _

_Puny God, not so puny, then...?_

He stared back, unwilling to admit wanting to obey the instinctive urge to look away from the fathomless, unblinking, bizarrely _unafraid_ eyes, and felt the temperature seemingly drop several degrees as a voice issued forth from the thin slice of mouth, those bright, unnerving eyes open wide as the head tilted to the side, as if questioning something.

"Hosst iss hurt becausse of you..."

His hearing curdled as he listened to the raspy lisp spreading through the air. The voice was not quite _Puny God's _voice, it echoed deeply with a glimpse of something sharper, _wilder_, broken-glass fragments of vocal infliction piercing like needles through a husky, slow-smoking construct of cold, gravelly syllables that seemed impossibly to almost _eat _the air that they rang throughout. The voice sounded disconcertingly feral, slinking in as if uninvited, swamped in a cloak of clinging, shadowy dark, and eerily, hideously _hungry. _

"Hosst iss almosst _dead _becausse of you...!"_  
_

The lanky, catlike form suddenly lurched forward, that lean, sallow face abruptly shoved up close enough that he could see the faintest outline of the pitch-coloured pupils in too-wide eyes. "We sshould kill you right now, sspill your blood acrosss the ground, chew your boness, tear you to piecess for what you did."

He resisted the urge to move back as a hand reached out, tracing a thin, claw-tipped finger against the side of his face, dragging the digit across green flesh to make a paper-thin, stinging gouge, almost as if in contemplation of how much effort would be necessary to fully carve the structure apart like a bar of soap. "We ought to rip you apart from the insside out, right here..."

The words, hissed in a matter-of-fact manner, felt as clear and unnerving as the feeling of shadowy darkness closing in during the night, and somewhere deep down he knew that Banner was hearing everything, and understood with a horrible sense of instinctive knowledge that somehow, impossibly, the creature before them _would_ do it, and possibly could succeed, too.

That uncanny gaze raked over his whole body, and the Hulk knew that Banner too felt the uncomfortable, previously-unknown sensation of being examined like a choice piece of meat being meticulously selected from an available prey animal. The feeling echoed with the prickling unease of vultures circling overhead with the frigid calm of grim certainty, waiting for their quarry to finally succumb to the inevitable end.

For a split second, a mournful look flickered across the sculpted features, and the next words seemed almost to be laced with an unhappy, not-quite childish sense of vague disappointment. "But...he made uss promisse not to kill you, ssaid you and your humanss were needed to crussh the filth. Sso we can't eat you."

A few moments of silence permeated the air, and then, jarringly, a cold, feral grin lit up the pale features like the cold light of the moon. "You sshould leave, the humanss sstill need you."

A bony finger tapped the pale mouth in contemplation, the wild gaze still staring directly at him, and then a raspy laugh, more of a gurgle like draining water, issued forth. "And before we choosse to take heed of the fact that we're sstill _hungry._"

He watched a too-wide smile stretch the thin mouth, sharp teeth exposed in a wolf's mad, hungry grin, and decided, for once, it was best to listen to Banner's increasingly insistent demands to _get as far away from here as possible._

Without pausing, he turned and leapt out the window, trying to put as much distance between them as was allowed by the current situation.

* * *

The symbiote watched in silent satisfaction as the giant green behemoth bounded away across the skyline, heading back into combat.

_Now if only we had food too..._

But alas, there was no food to be had here. Ignoring the urge to find some far-flung sustenance, It contented Itself with assimilating the penthouse's broken furniture and the decanter left on the bar counter. Once the room was sufficiently emptied, It returned to the crater, settling back into resuming the important task ahead.

_Keep ssafe, heal, fix, promisse..._It crooned the old vow, wrapping Itself securely around the lean body, swathing the rail-thin form in tendril after tendril of glistening, familiar sable, sinking deep into damaged flesh with comforting ease, entwining Itself around fractured bones and mending the cracks.

It was home. The rest of reality could wait.


	11. Point Me To The Gallow's Domain

**A/N: NOTE #1: This is NOT the end of this universe. I'm having far too much fun writing for "Space-Hamlet" and his ever-hungry (and gooey) companion to let go quite yet, so I've taken a deal from my muse (who has taken the form of a recent and greatly adored present, my shiny porcelain "sugar" skull her maker and I have endowed with the title of The Woman. Yes, after that woman). **

**I've been toying with the idea of continuing after the events of _The Avengers_, and the ridiculously-sized population of characters and ideas squatting for an indefinite amount of time in the bone arena of my work-addled head, all apparently under the impression that I'm currently too indecisive, have decided for me, and thus demanded that I continue this trip into fictional lunacy as far as I can dare to go. I've been liberally plied with tea to ensure compliance, and given an order by my muse to write this _AU_ into _Thor 2: The Dark World. _Since I've been nursing a rapidly growing desire to have the symbiote scare the absolute bejeezus out of He-Who-Must-Not-Continue-To-Exist-Under-Any-Circumstances (Really? He compared his favoured son's (admittedly rather nice and intelligent) girlfriend to have the worth of a goat? I know that she's mortal, from another realm, and from a completely different social class, but the implication that Thor was asking permission to, essentially, marry a farm animal (as adorable and cool as goats really are) instead of a "worthy" Asgardian woman was not only rude, but cruel) ****while quite possibly adoring the lovely Frigga, I simply couldn't refuse.**

**NOTE #2: I have a rather fuzzy memory of the exact ending to the film, aside from the giant missile explosion, Tony almost dying after ensuring said missile explosion to get rid of the Chitauri, and then the Avengers watching Loki being escorted off-planet by Thor with a rather uncomfortable-looking muzzle strapped to his face, before disbanding amidst Tony and Bruce driving off to do what I can only assume is _SCIENCE! _Now, g****iven that I do not actually own a copy of the film itself, and copies of the script aren't available for the public to look at, I've had to work off of the film's available clips, online plot synopsis, and dubbed versions with subtitles whenever I can find them in order to crank out this story, so please remember that, as an _AU, _there will doubtlessly be differences. Rest assured, though, Mr. Stan Lee can be assumed to get his obligatory "cameo appearance" and Pepper got a phone call from Tony that probably didn't patch through very well, given the outer space radiation. **

**DISCLAIMER: As usual, I own nothing financially profitable/even remotely awesome and/or officially licensed/recognized of _Marvel, _Norse mythology, etc., be it characters, pop cultural references, phrases/paraphrases, locations, superpowers, mythological weaponry, alien species, etc. I just have a lovely fanmade bit of art of the Norse God of Mischief that stares down everyone that comes close to stepping through the door. I also do not own any of the reference(s) to Shakespeare's _Hamlet._**

**WARNING #1: The standard-for-this-story levels of gore, foul language, semi-graphic violence, awkward/morbid humor, yet more unaccounted-for cannon-fodder deaths, and, of course, Tony's rather insane (but nonetheless rather noble) self-sacrifice of flying off into deep space to make use of a ridiculously super-powerful missile of massive detonation to blast the portal shut.**

**WARNING #2: This chapter is split into two parts. This, as you can tell, is the first half. As for the second part, which properly begins our foray into _Thor 2:The Dark World_...I can only pray forgiveness for what's in store, as, given what will unfold...you're probably not going to like it. **

**POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING: For those of you out there that might be reading this, this chapter contains use of a restrictive muzzle designed to inhibit speech as well as any chance of mouth movement. If you don't like reading about something used to forcibly induce silence or cover one's face, especially through some rather painful-looking physical restraints, please feel free to skip that part, or read something else. **

* * *

The air was filled with the acrid stench of smoke as Natasha approached the CMS device, with the exhausted, almost defeated-looking figure of Selvig sitting next to it, posture slumped downwards as if the collective weight of his years was trying to crush him alive.

"Doctor Selvig," she prompted quietly.

At the sound of her voice, he looked up, a desperate, terrified look in his eyes as he silently begged her for a possible answer of how to stop the insanity, the unmaking of logic and order burning the city away all around them.

The Tesseract's still glowing, beautiful, terrifying energy was firing off repeatedly, shooting in a great, shining stream toward the expectant gateway of the portal, the slowly but steadily increasing growth of the monumental, pulsating beam moving across the sky as if comprised of magnetized fillings being drawn to a gargantuan magnet.

"Loki's scepter, it's the key to this, the energy...the Tesseract can't fight it. You can't protect yourself from yourself, you understand?"

"It's not your fault, Doctor," she offered, "This, all of it...," she gestured around, arms sweeping out in a wide, graceful swipe through the air, "You didn't know what you were doing, so don't kill yourself over it."

He stared back for a moment, before his lips quirked up in a grim, watery smile, tinged with an ever so slight bit of pride. "Actually, I think I did know. I made sure to have built in a safety net, of sorts, to cut the power source."

She nodded, taking in the new information with silent relief. "Loki's scepter." It wasn't a question, so much as an affirmation.

The astrophysicist nodded, a look of faint but solid relief flitting across his fatigued features. "It might be able to close the portal back up, we just need to get it..."

A sudden glint of gold flickered at the edges of his vision. Blinking to clear the dots from his vision, he looked again.

_Wait, it's still there..._

He moved closer, looking down with eyes squinting to see better, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "And it looks like we're in luck," he said, turning to the assassin with joyful relief, "because I'm looking right at it."

* * *

The streets of both lower and upper Manhattan were still cluttered with the remnants of a dying invasion force, and Thor could only spare a moment to mourn the lack of proper fighting space the piles of enemy dead and chariots left behind before he whirled Mjolnir through the air in a glowing arc of beauteous, electrifying death, shattering three Chitauri heads in rapid succession as he flew past on a stolen chariot.

Shoving the corpses of the previous riders off the small flying craft, he stared at the mass of controls on the dashboard in confusion, wondering which one was the proper steering mechanism, before a sudden unholy screech rent the air, curdling his ears, and then a Chitauri leviathan crashed, howling in agony, through the side of a nearby high-rise office building. The world was knocked sideways as the gigantic beast slammed into his much smaller airship, hurtling him off the flying metal surface to soar wildly through the air for several heart-stopping moments before, in a spectacularly painful collision, he landed down on the street below, slamming into the concrete near Steve, who, meanwhile, was rather occupied with beating down the nearest crowd of incoming Chitauri soldiers. Broken rifle bits, hunks of uneven rubble, and chunks of severed alien flesh littered the street in places, still leaking blood or occasionally sparking.

Tony, meanwhile, was confronting the wayward leviathan lurching around the already conflicted airspace, firing off energy bursts and even trying out his laser booster in a somewhat half-hearted attempt at cutting the thick chitin shell apart. Unfortunately, the beam, while considerably powerful, was still far too weak to penetrate the protective hide of the screaming behemoth without additional support.

As he stared in displeasure at the unwanted sight of the thrashing creature ripping through yet another building, J.A.R.V.I.S. spoke up through the suit's communications relay, evidently having spotted a fatal flaw in the current attack plan. **_"Sir, I do not wish to patronize you, but if you continue with your current regime, we will lose a good deal of power before we ever cut through that shell."_**

He flew upwards to give himself some breathing room between himself and the swarming masses of aliens, and stared in contemplation for a moment at the howling leviathan as it slammed a thick, bony tail the size of a coffee shop into another building. "Hey, J.A.R.V.I.S.," he asked as he studied the wide, tooth-stuffed maw, "tell me something. Have you ever heard of the tale of Jonah?"

**_"I'm afraid I wouldn't exactly consider him as an ideal role model here, Sir."_**

_You and me both, bud. _

He looked to the giant, wailing, skeletal, horrific obscenity of the laws of Earth physics, and flew forward in a vicious burst of speed, firing off every available piece of remaining weaponry the suit had to offer. Angered at the attack, the leviathan, rather predictably, opened that huge, cavernous maw wide, displaying streetlamp-size slivers of razor-sharp teeth as it surged toward him, intent on devouring the pesky human trying to do it injury.

Tony seized his chance and flew inside, firing off shots as much as possible as he passed through a dizzying, disgusting array of what he could only assume were organs, blasting apart everything that moved, made noise, or pulsated even slightly to ensure maximum damage. The living airship screamed horribly, thrashing wildly as its insides were mutilated, and Tony was knocked back and forth in all directions, buffeted on every side possible as he doggedly rampaged to the other side.

Arms braced over his head as the surrounding flesh grew progressively narrower as he neared the tail end, and he instinctively shut his eyes and fired again, unleashing a hailstorm of white-hot fist-size bullets of energy to burn a hole straight through the back end of the leviathan.

The leviathan let out a final, gruesome cry, more of a slow-choking gurgle than a scream as the liquefied, burnt organs grew greater in number, and when Tony finally escaped the hulking, bony cage of flesh, the ravaged form collapsed inwards on itself, crashing into a nearby construction site like some frighteningly unnatural downed blimp.

Flying in a mad whirlwind in his rush to escape the collapsing alien's gargantuan corpse, Tony only had a split second to prepare for impact before he crashed headlong into the street below. Rolling a dozen or so feet from the crash site as his body slowly lost momentum, he cursed wildly inside the suit, the viewscreens flickering for several seconds as he tried to regain his breath.

As the data clusters projected inside the helmet slowly reverted back to normal, Tony looked up, trying to regain a sense of location after his abrupt crash, and let out a long-suffering sigh as he took in the sight of a sizable cluster of Chitauri foot soldiers rushing towards him, all holding out rapidly charging energy rifles out before them.

_Damn._

* * *

He'd never run out of ammunition so quickly before. He'd always been careful, meticulously targeting and executing his required mission perimeters, and crafted only as many arrows and adjusted his bow as was needed per assignment to ensure he didn't carry too much dead weight. Assassins covered less ground when something was weighing them down during the course of the operation.

Yet now, Clint noted with a hint of burgeoning frustration, he was facing a rather uncommon problem: he was down to his last offensive arrow.

_Dammit. Need to save that._

Stowing the projectile away for future use, he readjusted his grip on his bow, and got back to work.

Weaving in and out of the throng of Chitauri soldiers converging on his chosen perch, he slammed the bow into the nearest alien as if striking out with a staff, cracking bone with an ear-curdling _crunch. _As another crept up behind him, he twisted around, whipping his last arrow out for a split second to ram it into the exposed throat. The choked, gurgling rasp as it tore through skin and tissue lasted merely a moment, and when the body stilled, he abruptly wrenched it out of greyish flesh and pocketed it again.

Taking a few precious seconds to catch his breath, he looked around, scanning his surroundings to prepare for the next wave, and when the sky, for a brief, blissful moment, displayed only empty air, seized his chance.

Rummaging through his equipment, he pulled out a grappling arrow, the cable attached to it shining in the daylight like the coils of a thin, metallic snake. Notching it into place, he took a running leap off the edge of the roof, diving off the building in a burst of speed. The arrow flew free from the bow, hurtling through the air to slam into the side of the opposite building with a _crack _as the metal head embedded itself into plaster and insulation.

Ignoring the urge to panic as the wind whistled around him, he gripped the cable tightly in both hands and leaned forward, letting gravity help him swing through the empty air to crash feet-first through the building's window, plunging sharply into the interior in a burst of glass and wood splinters.

* * *

The Hulk was not having a good time of things.

It was true that there was a great deal of smashing that needed to be done, but when the enemy could barely even put up a decent fight, the action became repetitive, and even veered toward becoming boring.

Picking up yet another group of thrashing alien soldiers face-first in meaty hands, he slammed the struggling bodies forcefully into the cement ground of the street, then repeated the motion. More kept coming, seemingly uncaring of the fact that they could only step over the shattered bodies of their fellow soldiers before they, too, were picked up and ended as if swatting a particularly annoying, overly large cluster of flies.

He looked up, hearing the oncoming humming of ships in the air, and saw a veritable haze of Chitauri soldiers hovering overhead, chariots glinting like gunmetal in the light of day, all with weapons charging with ghostly-bright hues of amassing energy.

_Aliens stupid, _he decided.

Granted, there was little evidence to suggest the contrary, given that, despite the obvious piles of dead Chitauri flesh heaped in the streets around him, the lack of injuries to his body, and the twisted, broken forms of their technology littering the ground by his feet, the enemy forces _still _tried to attack him as if he could actually be defeated.

The Chitauri hovering overhead began to fire in unison, bolts of energy frying the air as they rained down upon him. The effect, however, was quite understated, akin to being exposed to a light rain-shower.

Letting out a roar, he ran through the hail of fire, heedless of the useless attempt to subdue him, and began to angrily swat at the offending aliens, smacking them down from their places in the air and shattering their rifles as if crushing insects buzzing too close.

* * *

The aircraft hangar was not the safest place to be, given his recent debriefing of the conflicting opinions over protecting humanity from the otherworldly threat, but he knew, no matter how unwilling he might be, that he had to obey orders.

This had come from a higher authority than the Director. Noncompliance was unacceptable.

Sitting silently in the cockpit, he listened attentively to the commands being issued forth to him as the World Security Council outlines his objective. "Due to inappropriate conduct, Director Fury has been suspended from all duties until further notice, and as such, is no longer in command. Override Order, 7 Alpha 11."

The speaker went silent, and, understanding the dismissal, he obligingly reached for the controls, ready to begin the mission. "7 Alpha 11, confirmed. Prepare to takeoff in five."

Flipping the switch, he leaned back into his seat as the engine roared to life, the sound booming like a chained dragon's roaring in a cavern deep underground.

* * *

The bridge fell silent as Agent Hill looked at her viewscreen in mounting worry, eyes widening as they took in the distressing sight. "Sir, we have a bird in motion, the hangar's been breached! Anyone on the deck, we have a rogue bird! We need to shut it down _now_! I repeat, we have a rogue bird preparing for flight, _takeoff is not authorized!_"

* * *

Fury ran out onto the outer deck of the Helicarrier, clutching a loaded RPG-7 in his hands. Taking aim, he fired the weapon, and the tail end of the jet lit up in an explosion of bright, gleaming fire.

The jet, now lit up at one end like a Fifth of November bonfire, skidded wildly out of control, the previous calm, controlled trip toward the end of the takeoff strip now turned into a dazed, delirious tilt-a-whirl to the edge of the open hangar. As it came to a screeching halt, the acrid scent of burning rubber spoiling the open air as the tires squealed and fried at high speed, the pilot hurriedly escaped the cockpit, falling to the surface of the hangar, unharmed, but obviously uneasy as he took in the sight of the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. pointing a rather sizable lethal weapon in his direction.

Another jet, this one free of Fury's attention, seized the presented opportunity to take off, and tore off down the runway like a bat out of hell, the tires shrieking as it got off the hangar floor and into the air.

"Stop him!"

But it was too late. The hangar did not close in time, and the jet flew out in a blur of speed. He watched in silent horror as it began to seem smaller and smaller, until a tiny, almost-invisible dot flew out of it and headed toward the city.

_Shit._

* * *

The air crackled with unease, tense as a tightrope walker's concentration during a live performance.

"Stark, you hearing me out there? There's a situation here, we have an armed nuclear missile sent out by the Council, it's headed straight for the city."

A beat of silence on the other end as the information was taken in, before an answer, short, clipped, and heavy as stone, filtered through. "How long do I have?"

"At best," he said, watching the monitor beeping continuously as the tiny, innocuous-looking dot traveled further from the Helicarrier, "You've got three minutes, maybe less."

Silence again. The wind whistled outside as if ripping through a sea arch on a stormy day.

"I'm on it."

* * *

Steve had wondered if it was possible to feel so numb, so deadened, that it seemed you were only alive by the sign of your chest rising up and down as you breathed.

He did not wonder that anymore. War tended to be a brutal teacher, and the lessons taught were not always the survivable kind.

Another round of fighting had broken out, and this time left him battling alongside Thor, shield ricocheting back and forth between streaming arcs of blood-boiling lightning in a blur of eye-searing neon-white and blurs of a thinning, thickening, whirring slice of red, white, and blue. The thunder god's cape blew about him like a cloak of captured fire, bleeding crimson into enemy vision before a well-placed swing of Mjolnir shattered the skulls into craters of gore.

Steve muffled a gasp of pain as he was slammed into the ground by a rifle shot, and stayed on all fours for a moment, taking in deep breaths as he felt for his shield again. Somewhere close to him, he noted the brutal symphony of Mjolnir's enchanted metal hitting the much less sturdy metal of a car, and watched as, a split second later, the struck vehicle catapulted wildly through the air to slam into the nearest unfortunate Chitauri soldier.

A moment later, another sharp swing from Mjolnir to crack into alien flesh, and then Steve, now partially kneeling on the ground as he recollected himself, found a large, tanned hand held out to him in a clear offering of assistance. He nodded, and then the hand reached out, pulling him sharply upright by the seized arm.

"Are you ready for another bout, then?" Mjolnir swung back into place, and he twirled it in one hand, ready to let the hammer fly anew.

Steve stared for a moment, then replied with a pained half-grin. "What," he offered with a hint of good-natured mockery, "You gettin' sleepy or something? Try to keep up."

* * *

Natasha clutched the scepter as loosely as possible, wondering for a moment if it was possible to feel such irrational hatred for an object as she did now.

The scepter had played a pivotal role in brainwashing Clint. If it wasn't so necessary to preventing the destruction and assimilation of Earth by the invading alien force, she would have preferred to destroy it. The handle looked fragile enough to shatter with a good swing against a hard surface, and there were plenty of such unyielding spots all around the penthouse floor...

_No, _she reminded herself, _This isn't yours to break. Do your job, and let it destroy itself._

She moved to the CMS Device, Selvig looking on with a worried, yet hopeful expression. Worn, work-exhausted hands reached out to grasp at the control panel, ready to help undo the demolition they had unknowingly made.

Thin, snowy digits grasped the scepter handle firmly, holding it aloft, leaving it as far from herself as she could while still managing to grip it. Tapping her earpiece with her free hand, she called to the others over the communications network with a sensation of inward relief. "I've got the scepter, Selvig says it's the linchpin! I can close the portal! Can anybody hear me, hello? Answer if you can! I repeat, I can shut the portal down!"

An explosive cacophony of sound burst through from the other end.

Steve, ripping through another Chitauri neck with his shield. "Do it!"

Clint, silent as a corpse, save for the _twang _of bowstrings as he garroted another head free of alien shoulders.

Thor, a grunt of affirmation as he struck skulls to bits with Mjolnir.

But it was Tony's voice that shouted in dissent, worried, uneasy. "No, wait! Don't shut it down yet!"

Steve all but shouted into his earpiece, leaving his teammates wincing at the sudden shrieking through the network as it readjusted. "Dammit, Stark, these things are_ still_ coming! _Why _do you want to keep that thing open?"

The answer left dread sinking deep like poison. "I got a nuke coming in, the damn thing's armed and it's gonna blow in less than a minute! Now, if you don't mind, LEAVE THE PORTAL OPEN!"

She stared at the unbalanced sky, the small but rapidly approaching form of the mentioned missile flying into view of the city like an angered metal wasp. "Stark," she said quietly, "_Tell _me you have a plan for getting rid of that thing."

"I do," he reassured them all, "And I know_ just_ where to put it."

* * *

He'd never given much thought to how he might die on any given day, since, with a lifestyle such as his, each day could be treated as his last.

But now, as he reached out and gripped the missile in both hands, feeling the thrumming of the explosive power within even with the barrier of his suit-covered fingers, he felt death again, assuring and dark as the setting of the sun.

**_"Sir, I don't know if you've yet realized this, but we're losing altitude, and quickly. The suit cannot maintain itself much longer."_**

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah," he muttered back, "I kind of _noticed..." _

The data streaming into the viewscreen calculated that there was just enough power, if he was careful, to fly through the portal and let the nuke detonate in space, and destroy the Chitauri mothership with it, ruining the intergalactic doorway in the process.

_Well, _he thought as the portal consumed his vision, _I always did want to see what space was like._

The missile felt heavy, a leaden weight in both hands akin to the dead weight of a corpse, and he swallowed uneasily. _ Just didn't expect it like this. _

Even with the temperature-regulated suit wrapped around him, Tony swore that he could feel the freezing cold of outer space reaching fingers of frost into his bones as he left the familiarity of Earth's confines.

_I just hope the icing problem doesn't show up again._

Letting go of the missile, he watched as it drifted, almost serenely now that it was stripped of the application of local laws of physics, through empty space, and made contact with the gargantuan, hulking mass of the mothership that hung like a swollen spider in the vastness of the glittering dark.

He watched as it detonated, the silent eruption ripping through the hull of the ship like a ravaging plague, wondering idly how the destruction functioned without air. _Ah well, it's aliens, _he thought in resignation, _Nothing seems to make enough sense with them._

* * *

The ship destroyed, he turned around, forcing himself not to panic as the last of the power in the suit flickered, dying in a sputter of onscreen data.

_Shit._

He could only muster a moment of self-loathing at the lack of foresight before he began falling, toppling backwards through the portal, which he noted, with no small amount of growing horror, was _shrinking_.

"Close the portal!," he shouted, hoping against hope that the communications network was still online for him, "CLOSE THE PORTAL!"

Twisting, flipping, tossed head over heels, he plunged down, the portal snapping shut like a rubber band, and he still continued to drop, this time with wind whistling as it picked up around his returned body.

* * *

They watched their falling teammate with horror, unease snaking through each expression as the plummeting form failed to slow.

Steve watched, fingers twitching in a futile effort to reach out. "Son of a gun, he's..."

Thor watched, stormy eyes serious. "It does not seem that he's slowing down enough."

A raging bellow echoed suddenly through the air, and a huge blur of green hurtled through the air, bounding across the sides of buildings, reaching out a meaty paw, and suddenly, Tony, falling, tumbling, dropping Tony, was-

_Safe. _Relief washed over everyone as the suit-clad form of their teammate was caught, abruptly plucked from the air and held close to the bulky side of the Hulk, who stared back at his sudden passenger and grinned with pride at his accomplishment.

* * *

After a while, it was easier to drop the heavy suit and the body inside it than carry the man around, so when the Hulk found a suitable place to safely let go, Tony was allowed to drop again, this time from a considerably safer height.

He landed in a heap in the streets, crashing into the concrete and leaving a wide crater in the ground around him.

The street was silent, the body unmoving.

Steve looked on, concern forming a twisted knot in his innards. _He's...He's not waking up. He's not waking up...!_

The Hulk stepped onto the street, staring at the immobile form with displeasure at the lack of movement, and let out an earth-shaking roar.

* * *

His ears, he noted idly when he was ripped back into consciousness, were ringing.

When he looked up, Steve and Thor, disheveled and exhausted-looking, stared back at him with undisguised shock.

_Shit, that's not good. Is there something wrong again? Is the suit broken? No, that's not right, I'd know if that was the case._

He lifted his head up, exhaustion rearing up to war with surprise at his incomprehensible survival. "What the...What the hell? What just happened here?"

A thought occurred to him, and he instinctively swallowed in sudden, irrational worry. "Please tell me nobody went and kissed me..."

Thor merely laughed.

"We won," Steve breathed out, his face relaxing into a wide grin, the soot marks inconsequential in comparison to the silent relief in his gaze.

_We...We won? Of course we did. _"Alright," he let out a breath he hadn't realized he still held, "Hey, we won. Alright, that's...that's good. Good job, guys, great work. Now, let's just not come in tomorrow, okay? Let's just take a day off, hmm? Have you ever tried shwarma? It's good, or, well, I heard it is. There's a shwarma joint about two blocks from here, and I don't know what it is, but I do know that I want to try it."

Thor's brow crinkled in confusion. "We're not finished here yet."

He didn't mind. They'd just saved the world from aliens, and he'd just gotten rid of a nuclear missile. "Alright," he conceded, "But then shwarma afterwards. I mean it!"

* * *

When he awoke, the agonies that had plagued him from the repeated battering against the penthouse floor had almost completely gone. The pangs of affliction had ebbed away like the retreating tide, leaving only the faintest of poison-sweet whispers to irritate him. Looking over the body that had been left as a pile of blood and bone only a short while earlier, he began searching for any lingering injuries, a feeling of innate satisfaction rushing forth at the blissful absence of the former masses of bruises and broken bones.

Loki flexed his fingers experimentally, marveling at the painlessness of the movement, and turned his attentions to his companion, basking in the feeling of the last aches slowly fading away into oblivion. _And to think, _he mused, _Only a sscant few hourss before, thiss form was left to die a hunk of mangled meat and bone, and now, thankss to thesse effortss of yourss, the markss of desstruction have been almosst completely eradicated. How very thoughtful of you. _

The symbiote hummed in dark satisfaction, the living organic covering pressing firmly against every last inch of healing skin, curling against It's host like pitch-coloured curtains of creeping, clinging ivy. _Hosst iss better now. The green one hass gone away._

_I take it you had ssomething to do with that? _

Tendrils of shadow shot up across the catsuit's surface, extending from the sable-shielded plane of narrow back to rip through the air, stabbing viciously at the empty space like an arsenal's worth of katana-sharp organic knives as It answered, growling in brutal affirmation. _Our hosst, ourss! Don't like the pain, won't ssit in wait and watch you be hurt. If the green one comess back, he will be eaten, eaten down to hiss boness and the remainss sspit off the parapet to fall like rain! __  
_

The god wondered idly, from the warm feeling suffusing him at the words, if he should be worried that he had grown too attached. The possessive tone audible in the words was clear as crystal, sharp as broken glass, bright and raging as wildfires burning down forested mountains on a clear, dry summer night.

The feeling was, all things considered, a rather pleasant sensation. Despite the unhealthy implications of such a relationship, he knew he craved too strongly for the blissful reassurance of being considered worthy of affection, and the blood-soaked affirmation of their bond that the symbiote was willing to demonstrate on his behalf was, in itself, an abject delight.

Loki curled into a ball in the middle of the crater, reaching out to embrace the wickedly-sharp tendrils of sable ripping through the air like tissue paper; at the familiar touch, the deadly extensions immediately ceased the unsparing, incessant strikes, the brutal razor-edge instantly changing to soft, comfortingly familiar silken darkness, wrapping around the offered fingers almost greedily as the light-leeching swath of shadow coiled closer.

He closed his eyes and let tranquility wash over him like waves on the beach, slowly drifting into the abyss of a mental Cosmic Sea.

* * *

When he woke again, there was an arrow pointed at his eyes.

_Well, that'ss new. Not entirely unexpected, but sstill new._

Blinking in slight surprise, he looked up from his position in the crater, and took in the sight of those responsible for the destruction of the Chitauri forces. Idly, he noted the disarrayed state of his not-brother's hair, the soot-stains and bruising on Roger's visage, the new dents in Stark's armor, Banner's clothing change, the lady Romanov's dirtied uniform, and Barton...

The symbiote hissed inwardly at the sight of the arrow held in place, the projectile ready to fly forward and embed itself into a targeted eye socket like a knife into a pat of melting butter. He reached out mentally, wrapping calming emotions around the agitated bundle of reddening, blackening sensation to keep his other half from starting another war on the spot. _Be calm, be calm, Barton may wissh to kill me, but Thor musst bring back a living prissoner for the Allfather to judge. At thiss sshooting range, the arrow undoubtedly would be conssidered deadly, and Thor would be rebuked for bringing back a usselesss, mangled corpsse insstead of ssomething to properly condemn. _

_You ssaid he wass not for eating before. What about now? He wantss to sshoot uss!_

_No, I ssaid we would not eat thesse oness, and I sstill mean it. They are filthy from battle, anyhow, their flavour would be ruined by grime and Chitauri gore. _

The symbiote growled, but allowed the raging emotions to dissipate, though a distinctly sulking feeling accompanied the action. Loki sighed inwardly, half-amused by the fit of displeasure. _There will be otherss back in the Golden Realm for you to try, _he soothed._ Given Thor'ss fondnesss for thiss realm, _Nornss know that there will be no end of people openly desspissing our involvement in the invassion of Midgard. If one comess too closse, you are more than welcome to try and ssample them. Their disstasste for me will make them all the more prone to bay for thiss blood to sspill upon the execution block, or take ssuch meassuress upon themsselvess if the Allfather'ss punisshment iss not thought harssh enough. _  
_

Somewhat appeased by the offer, It let out a guttural hiss, emotions flickering like candle flames, before It settled fully, sated enough to relax within like a lounging jungle cat, content in observing the untamed bit of world that was presided over from the view of an apex predator in full bloom.

Turning his attention, for a brief moment, to the shattered penthouse window, he looked on at the satisfying sight of the city skyline, free of otherworldly portals or the clutter of flying invading forces, and felt a knot of tension unravel.

_They were ssuccesssful, then. Given their sshorter lifesspanss, the local populace will be working on reproducing and rebuilding to make up for the losssess ssoon, but they sstill have their citadel and world relatively intact, rather than a smoking ruin of a homeworld for their ghossts to mourn for. __The portal iss ruined, and the Chitauri left to wallow in their own demisse. With luck, perhapss thosse of them left back in the far reachess of the Nine Realmss will have the ssensse to sstay in the darkness, or elsse rissk complete desstruction. Thanoss hass been left bereft of a proper armada, hiss gift for hiss beloved hass been brutally tainted by the ill-sseeming blood of hiss own forcess... _

Letting the savage glee at such new knowledge run rampant for a moment, he thought of what few rights would remain to him now, given his current status in the eyes of the Nine Realms. A prisoner still could be allowed a few privileges, he knew...

_Now, there'ss jusst one more thing to do, then._

Looking up, he directed his gaze to Stark, the symbiote rumbling inwardly like a storm, and grinned ruefully.

"If you don't mind, we'll have that drink now."

* * *

The muzzle, he decided, had earned itself a solid, high-ranking place among his recollections of his more disgraceful moments.

The heavy, crushing vice-grip of enchanted metal pressed suffocatingly against his face, chafing at skin and cutting into his jaw like a long, slow-burning knife cut. Leather straps to keep it in place pressed against the back of his head like the kiss of an executioner's hanging noose, squeezing tight enough to leave a subtle, burning soreness that was certain to linger for hours, possibly even days, after removal of the unsightly mouth guard. The even, pillared, spaced pattern of the metal restraint whispered of the make of prison bars a million stars away.

The symbiote, as he had expected, took to despising the unseemly gag with all the indiscriminate blazing hatred of ten thousand white-hot knives, and had raged against their shared vessel being muzzled like a disobedient hunting hound with such incensed vigour that, doubtlessly, if It's vengeful thoughts could be heard by the humans during the application of the muzzle and chains in the first place, all attempts of action would have immediately been changed not only to disposal of the restraint, but rapid evacuation of the entire human populace in the area to prevent finding themselves placed on the dinner menu. _Gag hurtss, want it off, want it off...!__  
_

_I know, believe me, I do. But given that we will have to bear thiss indignity for a while longer, it would be better to contemplate what action to take once it iss removed...or we are given opportunity to dissposse of it._

After being apprehended and taken in by the humans so that he could be outfitted with the despicable muzzle and chains before being transported back to Asgard, they had taken the time to ensure the metal restraints would be nearly impossible to remove by oneself, tightening the metal and leather until he could sense blood welling up, sharp and stinging, from gashes forming underneath the enchanted metal. The coppery tang trickled down, slowly but steadily, to mix with saliva over time, until he knew from the intensity of the metallic tint that he would be tasting rust and death for hours.

Barton, it seemed, had enjoyed crushing his voice into silence a little _too _much.

But then, he supposed, it would only make sense to feel a particularly vicious satisfaction in the act.

It had taken Thor locking him in place by attaching him to Mjolnir on the ground with as short a chain as could be found to prevent escape, Rogers holding his head in place to keep him from moving away, and cold iron chains wrapping around his wrists to keep his magic bound, all to gain them the narrow window of opportunity to put the damnable gag on in the first place, and even then, they had not escaped unscathed. Countless cuts, darkening bruises, and several fractured bones had been left as a parting gift by the symbiote as It made their job as difficult as possible, jagged diamond-hard blades of organic sable ripping through the air like freshly sharpened saw-blades whenever someone came too close. Barton had managed, in the end, to put the muzzle on him, but the act had cost him several inches of skin, and almost lost him his fingers, given that the symbiote had lashed out as the metal gag made contact with skin, and only his sharp eyesight and years of honed reflexes had allowed him, albeit barely, to jump out of range of potential consumption before the shadowy appendages reaching out from the catsuit could maul, and possibly devour, both of his hands for the perceived offense.

It had greatly enjoyed the flicker of not-quite-hidden disgusted unease that had flared up in those bright eyes as the flesh It had torn away seemingly _melted_ into the surface of the waving tendrils, vanishing like water drying up under the outdoor sun.

_Do not touch, _the action said, the unspoken words clear as mountain meltwater,_ it will not end well for you._

Loki had inwardly laughed at the horrified expression on Roger's face, blue eyes wide with sickened shock.

_Are you certain you don't want it eaten?, _the symbiote asked, regarding the unpleasant gag with a fresh wave of bile-coloured revulsion. _Can eat it, pretend to be it, sso it doessn't hurt anymore. No one would be able to tell the difference. _

Given their situation, the offer _was _rather tempting..._  
_

_When they're not looking, _he decided, reluctantly swallowing another trickle of blood funneled into his mouth. _Perhapss while we're traveling en route back to Assgard to be ssentenced, you can do it while Thor iss disstracted. _

_The dwarvess work quickly, I musst admit, if they gave ssuch a meticuloussly-crafted work sso sswiftly acrosss the Realmss. It sseemss they sstill bear a proper grudge againsst thiss life. _He would concede, even if only inwardly, that they knew their craft far better than most would give credit for. The elves might produce the highest-quality architecture and literature, the people of Asgard the best warriors, but it was the people who lived and breathed the mountain stone, who made the metal _sing _with every strike of creation, that were the best blacksmiths.

He could only wish that their love of metalworking did not bleed so heavily into their memories of old grudges. _For all her claimss of being a warrior, of boassting of her sskill with battle, of being a proper fighter insstead of following in the docile, houssebound footsstepss ssociety deemed better for her gender, sshe sstill cried like an infant over the ssimple change of colour, wailing like a bansshee over the mosst pathetic of apparent faultss, and thuss the people sspoke and made me go forth to get new hair for her. What a foolissh bet I made, all to atone for my ssimple little change, all because of__ her ridiculouss want of blonde hair. My own head almosst losst, for a head of golden lockss. Did no one think to assk if I knew to change the colour **back **to what it wass before? Wass it too much to contemplate that perhapss thiss wass not the end of all dayss upon uss? Foolss._

He watched as Thor approached the stone dais, stepping onto the raised platform as he spoke his goodbyes to the humans who had come to see him off. The Tesseract pulsed rhythmically as it passed by Selvig, who backed away with a flicker of unease in his gaze, and the thunder god quickly passed the container of the glowing cube to his opposite side, flashing a brief look of apology to the man.

The Avengers, standing in a semi-circle around their otherworldly visitors and bereft of their former battle gear, could have passed for normal at first glance, if one discounted the glowing cube of power being transported to another Realm in front of them. But they were still weaning themselves off of the jittery caution and battle-ready defensiveness of combat, he could see it in the way Rogers held himself, fingers flexing and uncurling every so often as if searching for a shield to throw. He could sense it in the uneasy tinge in the scent wafting off an outwardly-composed Banner, who standing beside Stark, who had a thick wrap of bandages wrapped around his torso, peeking out just barely from beneath his civilian clothes. He could hear it in the whispers of Romanov, whose knives could be noted in the inseams of her jacket, into the ears of a shades-wearing Barton, who stared stonily forward at the chained god's shackled wrists as if willing the metal to compress until it broke skin, spilled blood, and crushed bone into dust.

_They sstill await the horn to call them back into combat. They know they are not alone in the Nine Realmss, they have faced death and desstruction, and won. Now they wait for it again. Ignorance that their world iss ssafe from otherworldly threatss cannot be claimed anymore._

_Perhapss,_ he wondered, watching the muscles clench in the archer's jaw as he met the sunglasses-covered gaze evenly, _the next time thiss world iss vissited, they will be more prepared. It iss better than no vanguard of defensse at all. _

It was a thought bereft of compassion, he knew, but a truth bitter enough to admit to. Reality was not always a kind place to exist in.

Thor, having finished with his farewells to Selvig, had busied himself with speaking with the remainder of his temporary teammates, and Loki took the opportunity provided by the brief lapse in attention to look over the muzzle once again, in the hope, feeble and faint as it was, of discovering a gap for the symbiote to potentially manipulate during transport. Having to repeatedly swallow blood-tainted spit to keep from eventually choking in the uncomfortable bindings was fast becoming a despicable nuisance.

He shifted slightly in place, resisting, once again, the futile urge to use a spell to vanish the filthy binding away. The blood that could not fully trickle down from the cuts was slowly drying by now, crusting over into an irritating, itching film of muted red, and the symbiote's attempts to seep out through skin to heal the slight injuries were being hindered by the oppressive, incessant droning of the unfortunately-close presence of the Tesseract, held safely, at least for the moment, in a containment module in Thor's hands. The glowing Cosmic Cube was pulsing steadily as a bodiless, ethereal heartbeat, and despite the fact that neither Thor or the humans showed any signs of awareness of the nonstop thrumming and whispering of the neon blue object of power, he and his other half could hear the endless mutterings, the sound faint yet unnervingly real.

The indiscernible, unsettling mumbling made the symbiote restless, agitated within the flesh-and-bone refuge of It's host, unwilling to leave the familiar shelter of the interior if such an action meant facing the eerie power without full strength. The noise was like too-sweet poison, deceptively dangerous and dripping bright, shining destruction, just barely contained in such a tiny form, and with every pulse of neon power, he could feel the enchanted metal of the muzzle resonate slightly, squeezing painfully, then relaxing just enough to be a deep, lingering ache to accompany the stinging of the cuts.

He wondered if he would be allowed to have it removed during the sentencing. Such an thought was pleasant, but likely useless.

_They would undoubtedly believe that the moment the hateful gag iss pried from thiss mouth, that I would lie my way out of punisshment. _

Given his past, and the reputation built with it, he could understand why.

A slight yank on the chains binding his shackled wrists drew him out of his musings, and he stepped forward, facing his not-brother's unreadable blue gaze with an equally blank stare. There was no point in wasting emotion where it was too late to affect the outcome.

_Time to depart, then._

The Tesseract's container was twisted around, glowing brighter and brighter, and then everything was consumed by a raging blue-white light, haloing the dais in ghostly luminescence, and cold burst all around in frigid, howling wind as the conjured gateway pulled them through.

For a brief second, he could see the world of Midgard at the other end of the surging, blossoming portal, rapidly vanishing like a mountaintop glimpsed from far away, and when it shrank down to the size of the head of a needle, he shut his eyes and let the thrumming current of the transportation take hold. The symbiote rippled in place, pressing against skin to trap in heat even as the wormhole leeched away the fading warmth left from Midgard's sunlight, and he relaxed as the thick swath of liquid shadow curled securely around him, tendrils branching out within as an internal anchor to keep their shared vessel steady amidst the storm of their grim future.

_Ssafe, promisse..._

_Yess, _he agreed, reveling in the stability the words provided, _ssafe._

Turning inwards, he let his thoughts on the situation dissolve with the blinking of the distant stars all around, and relaxed. The symbiote reached out mentally in invitation, and he gladly accepted, burrowing into the shared cocoon of mental quiet, basking in the blissfully soothing feeling that radiated throughout.

The portal continued to rage and quake, pulsing like an unending strobe light as they traveled further and further from Midgard, but neither god or symbiote faltered as they drew closer to the end of the wormhole's path.

They would be judged.

At best, there would be torture, ridicule, hatred. His tongue might be ripped out, or runes burned into his flesh with fire to block his magic and crush his will, or possibly his throat cut, body drained of life-fluid slowly, so that the blood could be used to replenish the various wards around Asgard's citadel walls. He had some of the best magical skills in the entire realm, doubtlessly a use could be gleaned from tearing it from him for a practice thought more worthy than simply keeping him alive and sane.

Perhaps there would be a prison cell, specially tailored to crush his magic into unreachable, useless splinters while leaving him exposed behind plates of glass or a field of foreign, controlled power, left to be relentlessly gawked at like an animal penned in for future slaughter.

Perhaps the guards would claim to forget to bring food or water, or simply would leave the muzzle on for a slow, unending half-life of undying starvation, until they forgot what food tasted like, or the cool embrace of water to a throat left to be dry as desert sand.

Perhaps the Allfather would drown them in shadow, locked away in the sense-stripped darkness to rot away into dust and obscurity, bereft of any deemed value or desired use.

They would be condemned, damned to death or worse.

Neither thought to entertain the idea to fear it. They had survived the darkness of the Void before, they could do so again.

* * *

Fury stared at the gathered collection of people crowding his viewscreen, and resisted the urge to laugh at the bewildered, upset looks sported on their faces, uncomprehending as to how the situation had gotten out of their control so easily.

After a moment, they seemed to recollect themselves, and then one spoke, his voice tinged with a slight waver. "Where are the Avengers, Fury? Surely they haven't gotten too far yet."

He let the faintest upward curve at the side of his mouth speak for itself as he replied, with just a hint of sharpness, "Afraid that I'm not currently tracking their whereabouts. I'm not exactly their keeper. But, given their actions, I'd say that they'd earned themselves a leave of absence, at the very least."

The response was uneasy, almost fearful of the answer it would get, and tinged with restrained anger. "And the whereabouts of the Tesseract...?"

He stood, unfazed and unmoved. "The Tesseract is where it belongs, and that happens to be out of your reach. You're just going to have to accept that."

"That's not your call, Fury. Now _why_ did you let this happen?"

_When you decided to send an active nuke to a city already under siege. _The words formed on his tongue, demanding to be heard, but he forced them down and chose a slightly more placatory route. "I didn't make it, I just didn't try to argue with the god that did."

The Council member stared back, eyes full of uneasy horror, evidently displeased at the answer. "So you let him take it, _and _the war criminal Loki, who should be answering for his crime, back to his homeworld, a place we cannot currently reach or properly appeal to?"

Involuntarily, an image of Coulson, lips shaking from pain, immaculate shirt bloodied, yet still trying to reassure him, even with a hole in his chest the size of a baseball, flashed across his mind's eye. He took in a deep breath, resisting the urge to walk away from the conversation.

"Oh, I definitely think he will be answering for the mess he's made here," he offered quietly, "you don't have to worry about that."

The angry, scowling expressions did not dissipate at the words. "Be as it may, I don't think you really understand what just you've gone and started, letting the Avengers loose on this world like a pack of wolves. The world isn't ready for that sort of power. They're extremely dangerous!"

He grinned, knowing the truth in those words was not meant to be as grimly reassuring as he himself found them. "Oh, they _definitely_ are dangerous, I'll give you that. They know it, the whole world knows it, and now, _every _world knows it, or will know of it."

"Was...Was that the _point _in all of this? An _experiment_ for you?"

"No," he answered, meeting their gazes evenly. "It was a promise."

* * *

The air was warm with the glorious feeling of hard-earned success, tinged with just a little more sweet than bitter to be considered a proper victory.

Maria Hill turned to her superior officer, watching with a slight tinge of nervousness in her gaze. "Sir," she said, hesitation flickering, than fading, "What...what exactly happens now? They've all gone their separate ways, and some of them went pretty extremely far! If we get into a situation like this again, or worse...what happens then?"

Fury looked at her, and the calm, unruffled certainty in his gaze helped alleviate the worry a bit. "They'll come back. It might take time, but they'll come back. You can be certain of that."

She pressed on regardless, wanting to be certain. "Are you really sure about that, Sir?"

Again, he stared back, no sign of uncertainty present in that single visible eye. "I am, Agent Hill."

Dark eyes blinked in slight confusion as she replied questioningly, "Why?"

"Because," he said, turning his gaze out to the world beyond the bridge's main window, "You and I both know that we'll need them to."

* * *

Tony looked over the newly remodeled top floors of the Tower with a considering air, Pepper standing next to him with a slight smile gracing her lips. The collective assemblage of blueprints, lines penciled out and redrawn in several places, all held one thing in common as they sat, purpose fulfilled, in a folder in her bag.

The air was calm, the sky cool and filled with cloud-laced robin's egg-blue. The gargantuan building stood proudly along the city skyline, newly outfitted with a restyled look and a replaced set of reinforced windows.

Stark Tower's famous logo, so long in perching on the top half of the building, had been cut out and removed. Instead, all that remained was a single, neatly done "A" in the center.

* * *

The cold, fathomless reaches of deep space screamed in a silent echo of agony, as, on the farthest, most outcast of the rocks at the edge of the universe, the Other knelt in deference to the towering figure lounging on a twisted, hardened throne, head bowed in subservience as he spoke.

"My lord, I'm afraid that the humans are stronger than we initially thought. To court them...to attack their world, is to court Death."

Unearthly lips turned upwards, a dark laugh raking through the air as the larger form turned around.

Thanos grinned, the expression hungry and wintry as a blizzard's cold slithering into bones, and said nothing.

There was no need to elaborate on the naked, unholy glee dancing like half-starved raven's beaks into freshly found corpse flesh, in the Titan's gaze.

* * *

In the back, the waiter watched silently, mopping uneasily as he took in the inane assemblage of mismatched humans and one otherworldly visitor.

He had been having a hard enough time cleaning up after the aliens had gone and blasted part of the restaurant into pieces, and now there were half a dozen new dangers sitting at the only table completely intact, still fully armed and and with the sort of haggard appearance that spoke of exhaustion and a hair-trigger instinct to lash out if disturbed.

One of the assassins (_the one with the bow,_ his mind supplied worryingly) took his feet off of the tabletop, leaving a boot-print of alien blood and street rubble all over the surface as he draped his legs over his partner's lap with the sort of casualness that spoke of long-term familiarity. The redhead, preoccupied with a thick slice of naan bread, ignored the sudden weight, and leaned forward to grab a container of spicy dipping sauce; the flash of light over the gun strapped to her side glinted like polished sliver, and he shuddered at the sight.

He resisted the urge to cringe. _I just cleaned that. Must not react, must not react..._

He motioned frantically to his coworker behind the counter. _Switch with me, switch with me!_

She rolled her eyes, and nodded, stepping out to take the mop from him and put it away. He hurried to the safety of the counter, letting out a sigh of relief.

Looking into the freezer to check the stock left, he could have sworn his stomach dropped out of his body in horror, the sickening, swooping feeling of disbelief was so strong.

There was no food left.

He looked back to the group eating at the table. The big blonde one was working steadily through all the dishes around him, and still appeared hungry.

_I knew I should've taken the day off._

* * *

Loki watched calmly as he was led up the steps to the palace doors, an arrangement of armed guards surrounding him.

It had taken some time to finally arrive at the heart of the citadel after arrival. The throngs of people that had mobbed the small group were quite persistent, much to his and the symbiote's shared inward annoyance. Too many bodies, too much noise, too much whispered filth.

Tempers had boiled over before they had gotten halfway through the maze of streets and buildings. Someone in the crowd had thrown a knife at them, and his other half had taken offense to it.

The streets had been emptied by the time they got to their destination. No one else had wanted to risk being eaten.

The symbiote, curled reassuringly against shared skin, had demolished the muzzle as soon as the travel through the wormhole had provided sufficient cover, and now wrapped a half-dozen camouflaged, interwoven slivers of soft, numbing semi-fluid around his damaged jaw, the altered adornment mending the thin cuts with ease as It resonated with a soothing, quieting reverberation, the feeling reaching down to the farthest reaches of their vessel and leaving him rather pleasantly detached from the simmering tension that tinged the air.

He wondered vaguely, through the tranquil numbness blanketing his thoughts, how they all would react to seeing their mad foundling again, shackled like a rabid dog and swathed in the embrace of a living, ever hungry shadow. Paler, thinner, colder, as if he had absorbed the very Casket that had been taken along with him from the battlefield before the bodies had even begun to vanish in the snow. Fingers known for handling knives and spells, now with claws for nails and thin, too thin, as if only darkness-wrapped skin was keeping bones from spilling out to sully the palace floor. Eyes that saw too much, filled with too little of what they thought they might have known, and empty of the penance and groveling that would be demanded of him.

_Hatred, _the god decided, _would be mosst appropriate. Dissgusst would not be amisss, either._

Perhaps Sif would throw a knife at him if he passed by. He wondered how sharp it would be._  
_

_Her disslike of me would have only grown in my abssence. Undoubtedly, the blade would cut a hair in half if thrown. _

The doors creaked as they opened, and he looked at the gilded finery inside, glittering, glowing, golden.

_Don't like it, _the symbiote muttered, taking in the appearance of the royal chambers with a faint hint of maroon-tinged disgust, _Everything iss too loud here. Footsstepss echo, voicess echo, not enough quiet. _

_Yet here we are_, he replied, _arrant knavess left to be weighed upon the aged sscaless of a sstagnating land of gold-dussted ill-humor. _

The palace echoed with voices, whispers magnified with help from the high ceilings, and he took in the hissed gossip and insults with inward disdain, head held high and expression arranged into undoubtedly infuriating blankness. _  
_

_Traitor. _

_Monster._

_Worldslayer._

_Madman._

He wondered if the cell he would be put in, if he was even allowed one instead of immediate execution, would be quieter than the huge, gilded halls of the upper world.

_For one may ravage worldss and ssmile here, and ssmile again, and be called a king, and yet I brand mysself an outcasst in the ssame manner. Ssmiling, damned villian, am I? I am a rogue, a sscoundrel, a cessspool of abhorration for my actionss, yet you pay your resspectss to him from whom I learned from example? If thiss world be one to which all otherss sshould asspire to be like, then let them know firsst of the insstrumentss of war you played sso eagerly upon, for you cannot play me in the ssame manner. I will not fall in line for you, not before, and certainly not now._

As he stepped through the doors, the symbiote wrapped more securely around him, grounding him, steadying him, his raft in the open ocean of disgust present in the gazes piercing him like ten thousand needles. Flares of ebony rippled like feathers, ruffled from wariness and valid unease at the cold, hostile feeling brewing in the air.

_If I am to be punisshed for my pride, my vengeance, my ambition, then you would need to punissh the resst of your bleeting ssheep. For what elsse am I to do, when it iss in my very nature, sshaped though it may or may not be by your ruless? Am I to crawl between thiss world and the next like an inssect, trapped and forced to sscurry between realmss like vermin? _

He approached the throne, noting the elevation and shaping for what seemed the ten thousandth time. The seating looked slightly more uncomfortable than he remembered, yet still managed to radiate a sense of loftiness and importance that, as a child years ago, had seemed awe-inspiring, powerful, and terribly intimidating. The Allfather had been in his element then, a force of universal power left to rule over all in his domain, uncrushable, unchanging as stone and as strong and harsh as the gale of the storms Gungnir was capable of producing.

Now, as he looked again, older, wrapped securely in the clutches of the only acknowledgement he considered of worth anymore, the throne merely looked to dwarf the one sitting in it, leaving far too much empty space, almost as if the golden adornments and carvings were to fill in the lack of fully imposing airs exuded by the one seated, the ancient body ravaged by the years imposed by the bittersweet claws of ever-hungry, unseen time.

_It raissess you up, but you sseem all the more ssmall and frail for all the good it doess you, Gallowss-King. __  
_

It was expected, or at least implied, that the prisoner be silent until spoken to, that the throne be approached with head bowed in the guise of deference, and respect, no matter how pitiful or grudging, be given.

_Dissappointment will be rampant today. I wonder how many of them will try to poisson me for thiss. _

Loki stood, straight-backed and unafraid, before those sitting above him, letting a smirk slither into place as he stared into the eyes of two of the most defining people of his existence.

The single exposed eye, framed beneath a bushy snow-white eyebrow, seemed so unmoved that it appeared, at first glance, to be carved from stone.

_You sstole me. _

Two bright, beautiful dark eyes, shining with a glint in them, despite the horror and fear and sadness, that spoke of an affection and worry he had relied on, thrived on, since he could first remember what it meant to be loved.

_But you love me. _

He had not expected such a warm welcome to his old home. _Perhapss Thor wass right, then, even if only a little. There wass ssomeone that mourned thiss form after all. _

The thought was indescribable. He decided to keep it, and take it out for further contemplation later.

_Not food, _the symbiote muttered decisively as It took in the sight of the Allmother. _Definitely not food. _

_And what of the Allfather?, _he could not help but ask, warm with his companion's easy acceptance of the only maternal figure he'd ever known. The mindscape was warmer, awash with emerging colours of budding pearls of warm butter-yellow amiability, faint, almost ethereal whorls of greenish-gold intrigue, waves of soothing olive-green enthusiasm mixing with a misty background of silvery-powder blue contentment.

The multicolour show of warm emotions jolted in surprise at the question, before a low, guttural hiss of disgust bled through the mindscape in drips of unpalatable dark greyish-green. _No_. _Meat iss all wrong. Wouldn't tasste good._

* * *

Frigga watched in veiled amusement as her husband sat near her in mystified anger, uncomprehending of the reason for the sudden laugh that had burst out of their wayward son. The sound was warm, rich, and utterly, maddeningly free of the pains and sorrows expected of one in his current state.

She had not heard that laugh in a long, long time, and was grateful that, even if it would likely only be this once, she could hear it again.

* * *

**END PART 1****...**

**LOKI AND THE SYMBIOTE WILL BE BACK IN...PART 2**

_**In Symbiosis we trust: Rue, for Remembrance**_

**NOTE: _In Symbiosis we trust _is all in ONE compiled AU universe (put into two parts due to the timeline from _Thor _to _Thor 2: The Dark World _requiring a rather worryingly large amount of words if combined), this is Part 1. Part 2 will be started as soon as I can, and will be put up as a continuing sequel to this story.**

_**A question for you to consider: If the Devil bets that a fiddle of gold against your soul says that he's better than you, than what does a tongue of silver and a knife of sable say about rules, ridicule, and the issue of trampled Asgardian kinship?**_


End file.
